


'Tis the Season

by Blaisdell



Series: What We Want [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Asian-American Character, Biting, But not in an icky way, Childhood Friends, Choking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Feminization, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Getting to Know Each Other, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Idiots in Love, If you're expecting something slutty to happen in the first fifteen chapters, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In a dawning realizations way, Jealousy, Kissing, LGBTQ Character of Color, Lots of Cum, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, New Year's Fluff, New Years, Objectification, Old Friends, Past Abuse, Pining, Sexual Frustration, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sub Drop, Verbal Humiliation, Well he's not really a sub but idk how else to tag it, don't, like super slow, sex toy, straight to gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 77,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28152888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaisdell/pseuds/Blaisdell
Summary: Bryce Qiao is looking forward to a totally normal Christmas. He's bought everyone Christmas presents and his last photo shoot of the month is on Wednesday, and then he's going to pick someone up and get the million hickeys that his agent told him to stay away from for at least two months and wear a turtleneck to Christmas at his parents' house. What hedoesn'tcount on is his mother inviting some stranger over for the day and thoroughly wrecking Christmas.S.J. Fernby came back to Minnesota for the holidays because he felt a little bad for his mom, alone all the time. Also, it's a good chance to meet the girl he's been friends with for two years now, right, especially since he wants to take their relationship to the next step? He's absolutelynotgoing over to the Qiaos' for Christmas, because 1) that's when he's meeting Rachel's parents, and 2) he absolutely cannot see Bryce without turning into a mess. In fact, there's no reason to see Bryce at all, because Bryce probably doesn't even remember him and S.J.'s just being creepy. He's just going to hang out with Rachel and Mum for his vacation, then fly back to NYC on January fifth. That's all. Nothing more. He's got it all under control.
Series: What We Want [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065677
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. T minus seven days // S.J.

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during the holidays right before What We Want and is definitely a little Hallmark-y. Am I sorry? Yes. Am I still going to post it? Also yes.
> 
> Nobody cares probably, but here's some music for you to listen to while you read if you want:  
> S.J.'s vibe: _Another Holiday_ , Dylan Dunlap; _Winter Song_ , Leslie Odom Jr., Cynthia Erivo  
> Bryce's vibe: _Step Into Christmas_ , Elton John; _Blame It on Christmas_ , Bebe Rexha, Shea Diamond
> 
> Please enjoy this last-minute, thankfuckImfinallyoutforbreak-fueled extravaganza that I have barely edited due to sleep deprivation and stress over my chem grades, and don’t expect anything except maybe some feelings (like, 2) and horrible fluff. Porn is in chapters 18 and 19; you know the drill. Happy holidays!

“Mum. _Mum_!”

“…and then of course we’ll just have to get something for the little twins, and—Oh! Mr and Mrs Chow…”

I take my phone away from my ear and glare at it. It’s absolutely broken, so I can still hear her voice without needing to put her on speaker and, not for the first time, I wonder how I haven’t gone deaf yet.

“Mum,” I try again. She’s still talking, so I raise my voice to yell over her, because once she gets on a roll, she won’t stop. Can’t stop. “ _Mum_. I am _not_ going over to the Qiaos’ place for Christmas. Rachel invited me over to her parents’ that day.”

Mum pauses her Christmas present planning and the line falls deathly silent. I can just barely keep from squirming, as a grown man, because that silence speaks of _disapproval_.

“But honey,” says Mum.

Silence again, like she’s not entirely sure how to breach this subject.

“The Chows invited us _all_ ,” is what she eventually goes with. Though _all_ doesn’t really say much, because it’s really just me and Mum now: she and Dad finally divorced last year after she went to the hospital and got fourteen stitches for the stab wound he put in her abdomen, and the worst thing of all is that I wasn’t even there for it, because I don’t even live in Minnesota anymore. I’m only back for the holidays, and then I’m flying back to NYC on January fifth, slightly after the worst of the New Year rush hour. I’m only back long enough in this boring state to cram with my mother in her tiny apartment and try to ignore her nagging about how she misses me, and I should move back here.

“Yeah, I know,” I say, looking outside my car window at a sad St. Paul sidewalk, some people bustling by in black coats. It’s freezing outside, yet for some reason there’s no snow. Everything is just coloured a sad grey-brown. I huff a laugh in my head. ’Tis the season, alright. All those Hallmark movies lied to me when I was a kid: I’ve seen more brown Christmases, in real life, than white ones.

I’m parked on the street, outside Wet Paint—Rachel’s inside, browsing through paints and paper and pens and pencils—and I’m starting to think that maybe I should’ve gone in with her, just to play the arsehole guy that would whine at her to hurry up, because the car’s starting to get cold and I can’t just turn it on to put the heat on: that would be killing the environment. Also, it would probably be warmer in the store.

A guy’s gotta monitor his pride, though.

I look into a window of Wet Paint and see Rachel, a handful of pens in her fist, crossing from the right side of the store to the left. She’s dressed like she always dresses in winter. She looks like a little lemming: enormous fluffy brown coat, black tights, clunky brown boots; her hair is up in one of those loose, sloppy buns. Her circular, wire-rimmed glasses are slipping down her short nose, but she disappears in a second and I don’t get to see her push them up.

“…and they’ve always been so nice to me, you know Mary—Mrs Chow—she comes by every week with leftovers for me and she’s even teaching me how to cook…”

“That’s great, Mum,” I try to get in, but she’s already off again.

I sigh and rest my forehead against the top of the steering wheel as my mom rambles, too lost in her own head. When I look at the phone, I can see that our conversation has already been going on for thirty-eight minutes. Which is also approximately how long Rachel has been inside Wet Paint.

What I haven’t told Mum is that Rachel had also offered to host me while I was staying in Minnesota. She hadn’t even been over-the-top with it; the invitation had just been there, at the end of one of her texts that day, a couple of days before I’d left New York. Of course, right after, as if she’d sensed that text, my mom had called and somehow extracted a promise that I was going to stay with her, and then I’d had to text Rachel back and decline, with another pitiful excuse.

I’d rather be staying with Rachel.

I feel like a horrible person for thinking that, but it’s just that Mum’s so… _much_. I’d been free once I turned eighteen and fucked off to NYU for my bachelor’s—or fre _er_ , because I could choose when to contact her—but every time I start to forget about her, the guilt comes back and crushes me, telling me that I should be a better son who calls more, texts more, visits more: she’s got nobody else.

Just me.

“…and what about Bryce?” my mom asks.

My stomach drops solidly out of the car, leaving me reeling and with a faint tug of nausea in my throat. “What about him?” I ask, hoping that she can’t detect anything weird in my voice. I force my mind blank before I can start picturing him and get carried off into cloud cuckoo land again.

“Don’t you miss him? This would be such a wonderful way to say hi! You haven’t seen him in years, I think!”

“Yeah, okay, he probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“Oh please, you guys were best friends—”

“In _elementary school_ , Mum, don’t make it something it isn’t, okay? And… and I really want to meet Rachel’s parents, okay?” _I think this is finally going somewhere._

I hope it is.

I _pray_ it is.

I’d met her on Skout a couple years ago while she’d been visiting New York and we got to talking; we’ve been friends ever since. I’ve been trying to be _more_ than friends for a solid two months, but I guess either I’m not putting out enough hints, or she’s really clueless. I don’t think it’s the latter, though: she graduated top of her class at Harvard before coming back to Minnesota. So maybe it’s me.

“Oh,” says my mom quietly.

“Yeah.”

There’s another uncomfortable silence, and I wonder how much longer I’m going to have to suffer through this terrible phone call.

“Well,” Mum starts up, “maybe you could do… part time at two houses? Go to Rachel’s, and leave early and come to the Chows’? I know it would mean _so much_ for them to see you again…”

I stare, glassy-eyed, out the windshield while Mum talks. And talks, and talks, and talks. A couple of cars rattle by: a dark blue one, then a grey one, then another grey one. I doubt the Qiaos would be _that_ thrilled to see me again. I doubt they even remember me. Bryce and I hadn’t even been particularly good friends, not like Mum seemed to think—when I was younger, she was just thrilled whenever I managed to talk to someone, because she was convinced that she and Dad scared kids away, which I guess in part was true, since most everyone in elementary and middle school had skirted large circles around me, subjecting to me to side-eyes and whispers. Which isn’t really that great for the self-esteem of a ten-year-old, but y’know. Fifth graders are mean as shit. Also, I’m more than three times that age now, so it doesn’t even matter anymore. I don’t even live here anymore, and I certainly don’t see any of those people anymore.

Well, except Bryce.

It’s not like I _see_ -see him, though.

He has an Instagram, that’s all. A public account—a _modelling_ account, because of course he’s a _model_. So it’s not really _stalking_ when I go and look at it. I don’t even do it that often: every time I bring up his profile, something twists up inside me, because my mom sent me the link to his profile, and I feel weird about anything my mom is involved in. I _don’t_ linger on the photos of him in what looks like couture outfits, suggestive even though he’s still clothed, each one with a caption that is just teasing enough to catch the eye, and then you click on _see more_ and it turns out to be a promotion for Dior Homme or whatever. _Don’t_ look at the way his shirt pulls across his chest, or his thighs, or anything weird like that, because that would be gay, and I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything bad with being gay. It’s just that, I’m not.

Also, I can absolutely _not_ set foot in the same vicinity as Bryce ever, because if, in the ludicrous universe where he _does_ remember me, he’s definitely going to ask why I’m such a fucking mess, and why I look like such a dump compared to him—because I can still remember the way he’d curl his lip at kids he deemed ‘below him’ in grade school, those who weren’t part of his privileged in-group—and I can really do without that. I don’t want to become one of those guys with their necks under his Givenchy boots.

“…?” says my mom, and then my brain catches onto the pause in her words.

“What?” I say.

“So, do you think you could do a half-day?” my mother asks, and I hate that she sounds so disgustingly hopeful, because it makes me want to just give in to her words like I always do; curl up and let her make the decisions for me.

I can’t, though.

Because Rachel.

I swallow past the ball in the back of my throat, but it doesn’t go. “I dunno, Mum. I probably won’t be able to make it.”

_This is more important to me._

“Well, how long are you going to stay there? Christmas is a long day, honey, sixteen hours if we don’t count sleeping. You surely aren’t planning on spending _sixteen hours_ at Rachel’s place.” She sounds a little whiny, like she can’t understand why I’m choosing a girl I fancy over some family I haven’t seen in, like, eighteen years, and I want to laugh hysterically, a little bit, because I can remember exactly when I sounded just as whiny, and my own mother is reminding me of a child.

“I dunno, Mum,” I say again, because I don’t know how to argue with her. The longer this conversation goes on, the more my brain feels like it’s made of cotton wool, and I just want to hang up the phone and do something else. Anything else. If I just agreed with her, she’d stop—she’d stop pressing, and then I could just put the phone down and go back to my life.

“Well, maybe you can think about it, okay?” Mum says. “We can talk about it over dinner, too. Unless you’re having dinner with Rachel?” It sounds more like a challenge—like she’s trying to say I think Rachel is more important than my own mother—than it does an innocent question. I can already tell she’s starting to hate Rachel for ‘stealing’ me away from her.

“No, Mum,” I say, and the tension of _wrongness_ unclenches a little bit in my chest, because that’s one less thing for her to scold me about. “I’ll come back to the apartment.”

“Okay, that’s great, baby. I’ll see you then? When are you coming back?”

“I dunno.” I glance at the clock on the car dash, then remember the car’s off, and look to my phone.

 _3:38_.

It’ll start getting dark soon.

“Maybe five? Six?”

“That’s such a long time!” Mum says, but before I can open my mouth and apologize and suggest a sooner time, even though I really don’t want to, she runs me over with more words. “That’s fine, I guess. Make sure you drive safely, okay? I don’t want to hear about my baby getting into a car accident! And buckle up, it’s icy. Pump your brakes if you need to stop, okay?”

“Yeah, Mum.” I don’t bother telling her that this car has ABS braking. I doubt she’d remember, even if it’s _her_ car.

“Okay. I don’t want to keep you any longer.”

“Okay, Mum.”

“Alrighty. Bye-bye! I’ll see you at five, okay? Don’t bring anything back, I’m making General Tso’s chicken!”

“Okay.” My stomach cramps at the thought of how badly she’ll mess that up, and I wonder if I’d be able to sneak McDonald’s into the house to eat in the bathroom after she’s gone to sleep. I twist around in the driver’s seat to look in the back; see if there’s some bag back there; I’d left my backpack at Mum’s place.

Nothing.

“Love you, Sunny!”

“Love you too, Mum.”

“Okay. Bye-bye!”

“Bye, Mum.”

“Bye!”

And then she hangs up.

 _Finally_.

 _49:49_ , says the call time.

Ugh.

I look into the windows of Wet Paint again. Fifty-plus minutes is a really long time for someone to take in an art store. Not that I’m bashing on Rachel or something. But fifty minutes is _so_ long, and I can no longer feel my feet.

Fuck it.

I turn on the car and crank up the heat. A pedestrian glances into the window of my car as they pass, probably only startled by the engine, but their gaze makes guilt pool in my stomach for wasting gas on such a trivial pursuit as this.

Jingly Christmas music tinkles out of the stereo. Rachel had put that station on; she’d said something about getting in the “Christmas mood.”

I’m not sure what’s “Christmas mood”-y about listening to Wham! wail about lost hearts or whatever. Christmas, for me, had always been spent in my room, on my bed, generally staring at the ceiling, because my parents hadn’t wanted me to go out and be with friends because it was supposed to be a “family time,” but we’d never _done_ anything together. Dad had used to go out all the time on Christmas with… people, I don’t know, and whenever he came back, Mum would start yelling, and it had been a wonderful symphony to listen to, Dad’s British accent clashing with Mum’s American one, and without fail I would fall asleep wondering what would’ve happened if Dad had never moved here and never met Mum and never bothered to have a child.

A light rap on the window makes me jump, and I whip around to see Rachel standing outside shotgun, looking apologetic, a large brown paper bag in hand.

I unlock the doors.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” she said. She brushes off the seat before she gets in—a tic, it must be, because I’d vacuumed this whole car top to bottom before taking her out; there’s nothing on the seat.

“It’s fine,” I say. I’m treated to a solid look at her profile. She’s pretty good-looking: her nose isn’t too large or anything, and she’s got the smallest chin of anyone I’ve ever known. “No worries at all.”

She turns and gives me a little grin.

Should I kiss her?

Like, lean in and kiss her? Would that be romantic?

She’s a bit pink-cheeked, even though she hasn’t been outside for long—I’m literally parked right outside the doors of the store—and her clothes still have that residual aura of cold that lowers the heat of the car slightly.

“Thanks for warming up the car!” she says, turning away and reaching over her shoulder for the belt, her bag balanced in her lap, her thighs very neatly pressed together.

“Yeah, ’course.” I don’t tell her it was really for me, that seems like a bit of a douchebag move. Why ruin the moment? My dad’s doppelganger, who lives rent-free in my head, snorts at me: _Simp_. Never mind the fact that he probably doesn’t even know that word in real life.

“I like your tights,” I hear myself; an attempt to divert myself onto a different path of thinking. Maybe it would help to see her face. To hear her voice.

She looks back at me, a slight smile playing on her face. “Oh, thank you. They’re leggings, though.”

There’s a little pause, and she tilts her head a bit.

My brain’s screaming at me: _Kiss her! Lean in, kiss her, don’t be_ gay _!_

I clear my throat. Look away. “Oh. Um, sorry. Cool. Uh, d’you want to go for coffee or summat?” A car whizzes by and I glance out the window before shifting the car gear.

I feel like puking, and I don’t even know why. I didn’t do anything.

 _Coward_ , says my father. _Can’t believe I raised such a sissy as a son._

“That sounds good,” Rachel says, voice soft. Demure. _A proper lady_ , Dad would call her. Or maybe not, considering she went to Harvard, and Dad thought that women shouldn’t receive schooling after the eighth grade. “We could go to Cafe Latte?”

“Um, yeah, sure. That’s sounds good.”

“It’s right on Grand,” she says. “You just gotta go straight for, like, fifteen blocks.”

“Alright.”

“Maybe we could go to The Yarnery afterwards?”

“Okay. I, uh….” Fuck, I sound like such a loser, “My mum wants me back at her place by five or six.”

“Oh!” says Rachel, eyes widening. “We don’t have to go then. If you’d rather not? We can head back to my place…?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” I glance out the window again so I don’t have to look at her face. “The Yarnery’s fine. It’s great! We can totally go.”

In my head, my dad laughs at me.


	2. T minus six days // Bryce

“Oh my god, listen to me, Viv. Vivian! Are you listening? I. DON’T. GIVE. A. SHIT.”

“You’re such a bitch, Bry!” Viv yells on the other side of the line. “You know I don’t have a job!”

“Yeah, and you know whose problem that is? _Yours_. Go whine to your boyfriend if you want more free money; if you spent everything I gave you already on that salon visit, you pay the price.”

“Fuck you!” She slams the landline down—typical teenager—and a second later I hear the dial tone.

“Who was that?” asks Lucky. He’s looped, bored, along the edge of bench I’m pacing in front of, enough bags piled beside him that I could probably convince some poor child nearby that he was the Grinch stealing Christmas.

“Viv.”

“What did she want?”

“Cash for presents.”

“’Tis the giving season, but someone’s not in the giving mood.” Lucky shoots me a little smirk.

I scowl at him. “If I had known you were going to be so bitchy today, I wouldn’t have invited you.”

“You _need_ me,” he says. “You’re the one who was stupid enough in the first place to leave all your Christmas shopping until the last minute.”

I almost give him the finger, then remember we’re in the Mall of America and I would probably get arrested for acts of obscenity.

“You’ll find your necessity is greatly overexaggerated.”

“Right. Whoops. I forgot I was here just so I could be a glorified shopping cart. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Yeah. You’re welcome. Get up, shopping cart. We have to go to BOSS.”

Lucky wrinkles his nose. It’s kind of cute, and I’d be lying if I said this was the first time I thought about kissing him, but I’m fairly sure that intrusive thought (as repetitive as it is) is an after-effect of being really fucking lonely and really fucking horny.

I need to get laid.

This normally isn’t a problem I have, but back in November, my agent had yelled at me to avoid getting hickeys for at least two months so the Christmas shoots would not be marred by ‘terrible, unsightly marks.’ I am so looking forward to the last shoot on Wednesday, because after it, I am going to go to a club and pick up the first guy I see. That isn’t to say I’m a slut who’ll only have sex if hickeys are involved, but I’ve also been too busy; there’s been family business and all that kind of crap, blah blah blah.

Lucky manages to haul his ass up from the bench, sighing far more than necessary and managing to wrangle all the bags up.

“Does that make you feel manly?” I ask, watching him struggle.

“So manly,” he grunts out. I _would_ offer to help him, but the last time I did that, half an hour ago, he nearly bit my head off, snapping that _He could handle it_. He nearly drops the bag from Nordstrom but does some weird twisty move and saves it before it dies and spills its guts out on the floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ, why are you buying so much stuff?” he mutters. “I feel like a coatrack.”

“Listen. I _said_ we could go back to the car and put some of the stuff away. _You_ ’re the one who was like _Ugh, Bryce, I don’t want to make two trips_ and _Ugh, Bryce, just hurry up, I can do it_ and _Ugh, Bryce, stop complaining, you aren’t even the one carrying the bags_. Do you _want_ to go to the car and put these away?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

“Fine.” I start looking around for a directory, because hell if I know where I am.

“Who’s getting the BOSS stuff?” Lucky asks as he trails me, a little elf in a sea of normal-sized people. I would’ve totally laughed at his expense, if right now was actually two or three years ago, but he looks rougher than he used to, little bags and the slightest of dark circles under his usually-bright eyes, so I leave him alone. He’s looked like shit ever since his twenty-first birthday, and everyone knows why, and I can still feel Michael’s nose breaking under my fist, because he’d never been so much of a dick before.

“Dad.”

Lucky snickers. “You know what you should do? You should, like, go to Kohl’s and find the ugliest fuckin’ Hawaiian shirt and put that on top of whatever you get him from BOSS. Y’know, just to see the look on his face.”

I snort, squinting and tapping away on the directory and ignoring the way it makes my fingers oily. That’s disgusting, but I can’t very well abandon Lucky just to fuck off into a bathroom for another fifteen minutes. (Yes, I am vain. No, it is not a curable affliction.)

“Have you bought my present yet?” Lucky asks, bags crackling and sighing as he shifts. Half of them are practically dragging on the ground, his arms not long enough to keep them any higher.

“I’m not telling you.”

The bags crinkle discontentedly. “Half these things are, like, clothes,” he says. “Everyone hates getting clothes for Christmas, Bryce. You should get them fun things like rubber band pistols and assless chaps.”

“I hate to break it to you, but assless chaps count as clothes. And I physically _can not_ show up to Christmas and straight-facedly give my mother _assless chaps_.”

“They don’t have to be for your mom. You could give them to your dad. Eric has a fantastic ass.”

“Why the fuck have you been looking at my dad’s ass?”

“Some things are so wonderful that you can’t help but to pay them tribute. Your dad’s butt is one of them.”

I gag. “That’s disgusting. I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened.”

“You can try,” Lucky says. He’s still smirking, little shit, even though he’s drowning in bags. “But you know you never will. Your dad’s ass will haunt you forever.”

I’m very tempted to strangle him, just a little, but I settle for very clandestinely flipping him off, then shoving him away in the vague direction in which we’re supposed to travel to get to BOSS.

“Also," Lucky, says, "did you hear me when I said everyone hates getting clothes for Christmas?”

“I hear you too well all the time,” I respond. “ _You_ might still be a child, but I can tell you that soon enough, middle age is going to grip you—around the middle; heh, get it?—and you’re going to start appreciating getting clothes for Christmas just like the plebs you claim to loathe.”

“Never,” says Lucky.

“You will. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already, considering you’re past twenty. I guess you just gotta wait until twenty-five or something. Either that or we need to ship you off to England so you can go appreciate Queenie’s stylishness until it rubs off on you. God knows you’re dressed like a homeless man ninety percent of the time I see you. Nobody would believe me if I told them you were gay.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m noticing the lack of denial.”

“I’m going to go and dump your bags in the mud outside the parking garage,” Lucky threatens.

“I dunno, man, they’re kind of fucked already with the way you’re dragging them around on the floor.”

He kicks at me, but it’s easy to dodge with how weighed-down he is.

“You’re making a spectacle,” I say. It’s true: we’re getting looks, but to be fair, it’s probably not because of that: most people probably aren’t used to an albino shepherding a midget around the Mall of America. Though: it’s also the Mall, so they’ve probably seen worse. I came here a couple years ago and (horrifyingly) witnessed a dude shitting on the floor once. That had been very weird.

“I’m not,” he says, but he’s a little bit quieter now, and when I look back at him, he’s kind of hunched inward a little bit, and I frown.

“Yo, I was joking, dude,” I say.

He snorts, as if to say he already knew that. “Whatever. What are you buying your dad from BOSS?”

“Something that _isn’t_ several hundred dollars.”

“Cheapskate.”

“By all means, if _you_ want to buy him a suit that costs half a grand, go ahead! Meanwhile, I will sit on the sidelines knowing that he doesn’t _need_ one, because he already has eight. And that is five more than necessary.”

“Wow, sounds like a daddy,” says Lucky. “I should—”

“ _Don’t_. Finish that sentence,” I hiss in his ear. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Maybe I just like having fun at your expense.”

“You’re not allowed at my parents’ house anymore.”

He pouts magnificently; he’s always had an expressive face, and he’s always been worse than terrible at hiding his emotions. “Not even for New Year’s?”

“No. And I’m going to tell them to stop giving you red packets.”

He punches at me and misses, but the bags swing forward and catch me on the thigh, poky edges hurting more than I let on. “Bitch. You would never.”

My phone rings before I can bother to formulate a response that would keep the banter going.

 _Mom or 8 others, home_ , my phone tells me.

“Who’s that?” says Lucky.

“Probably Viv again, ugh.” I consider hanging up, but I don’t just in case it’s actually my parents calling me about some terrible emergency, like Amy having covered herself in melted marshmallows again, or Peter having gotten caught up in League of Legends and having stabbed someone after they accidentally cut the power in an attempt to turn off the fire alarm, which always goes off when Dad cooks. “Hello?”

“Hello? Hello? _Caihong_?”

I have to yank the phone away from my ear, while I shove Lucky into BOSS, to avoid getting deafened. “ _Yeye_? Hello, what’s going on? I’m a bit busy right now.”

There’s a bit of heavily-accented grumbling.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the Mall.”

“Eh, hurry up and come over here. Ming Yue took your mother’s car and…” he trails off into mumbling again.

“What?”

“TOOK MA’S CAR,” _yeye_ yells, straight into my fucking ear, subjecting me to some weird looks from a couple nearby patrons of BOSS.

I kind of want to ask how this is my problem, considering that I’d permanently moved out after graduation, but that kind of tone is generally not appreciated by the older generation, so I hold my tongue.

“She probably just went over to Paul’s place,” I say, shoving my phone between my ear and my shoulder, ignoring the way Lucky’s looking around frantically like a robber that’s just been cornered by cops, pushing him toward a more secluded section of the store. “Call _her_ , not _me_.”

There’s more mumbling on the other side of the line, and I’m halfway through demanding he give the phone to Mom or Dad when someone repossesses it. “Hello?”

“Hello? What? Who is this?”

“It’s Dad. Where are you?”

“I’m at the Mall. What was _yeye_ talking about, with Viv?”

“Eh, she stormed out of the house and took the keys. Went over to Paul’s.” He says this with a rather acrid tone. It would be somewhat of an understatement if I said my parents did not like Paul. I’m fairly sure that’s why Viv’s dating him, but considering she’s sixteen and caught in the throes of teenage angst while I’m out here living a life, I can’t really bring myself to care _too_ much. She’ll grow up at some point, and end up dumping that idiot when she finally blows her nose and realizes he doesn’t shower and smells like cum and sadness (as all pubescent boys do). In the meantime, however, she’s decided to dye her hair neon green like Billie Eilish and communicate solely in grunts and cuss words during the rare times she can bother to mingle with her family.

“Right,” I say. “I’m not going to play taxicab and go get her, I want you to know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Dad. “She’ll bring herself back here in fifteen minutes if she wants to eat tonight. I already texted her. Mom wants to know if you want to come over for dinner.”

“What time?”

“Six thirty.”

“What’re you making?”

“ _Gai lup chao fan_.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll see if I can make it.”

“Ugh, Bryce, you’re squishing me!” complains Lucky, shoved into a rack of suit jackets.

“Sorry.” I take a step back.

“Who’s that?” Dad asks.

“Lucky.”

“Ask him if he wants to come too.”

Lucky’s not looking at me; his gaze is darting around the corner of the store we’re in.

“Yo, Lucky, do you want to come over for dinner? My parents’ place.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed at your parents’ place anymore.”

I put my dad on mute. “Ah, good point…”

“Nah, nah, I want to go! What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken fried rice.”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, but listen here: you say anything weird about my dad, and I’ll put _you_ in a wok. Got it?”

“You can _try_.” He smirks, chin tilted up a little bit insolently in a way that makes me want to hold it and see if pull it up higher and bare his throat and—

Ugh.

I’m disgusted with myself, and also I need to cool the fuck down before I get half a boner in a Hugo Boss store. At this rate, I’m going to end up jerking myself off in the men’s bathroom, and that is a terrifying thought. I am not a person that takes care of private business in public areas.

“Yeah. We’ll see.” Our eyes lock for a second which, alongside the challenge, is just the tiniest bit homoerotic (or maybe a lot homoerotic). Then he looks away.

Instead of punching something to settle the adrenaline that’s racing through my veins, I unmute my phone. “Yeah, he’ll come.”

My brain immediately makes that dirty, and I have to start telling myself, over and over in my head, that Lucky is not going to stay the night for _any_ reason whatsoever and also he is totally, one-hundred-percent off-limits, as Michael’s ex.

“Okay,” says Dad, oblivious. “See you at six. Hey—also, Mom invited some people over for Christmas.”

“People? What people?”

“The Fernbys? Old grade school friend.”

“I have no idea who that is. And for _Christmas_? Really?”

Dad lowers his voice to a hiss. “You know how she gets. I already said that, she got all snippy with me. Don’t bring it up with her.”

“Urgh. Fine.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.” I hang up.

“What was _that_?” asks Lucky.

“What?”

“‘ _Urgh. Fine_ ,’” he mocks, in an approximation of my voice, and I smack him.

“Mom invited old friends over again. For Christmas. And when I say old, I mean _old_. Like, nobody-remembers-them-from-twenty-years-ago-old.”

Lucky makes a sympathetic face. “Again? What do you mean again?”

“Every once in a while she goes through this phase where she tries to reconnect with old friends and invites them over. I don’t know why the hell she thought that this year, Christmas would be the best time for that.”

Lucky makes a face. “Well, have fun being awkward.”

“Don’t remind me. I should invite you over to counteract all the whiteness I’m going to see. It’s going to be all: _What’s this? What’s that? Where’s the figgy pudding?_ all fucking day. Last time someone came over, we had to doordash Subway for them because they refused to eat our food.”

Lucky snickers. “Sounds _privileged_.”

I smack him again. “Stop being an ass and make yourself useful. Here, give me those bags; we have a job to do: go find me something less than five hundred dollars in this store, you know I can’t see labels for shit.”

He snickers as he trots off. “Make sure to text me during the aftermath.”

Blegh. I don’t even want to think about that. Any previous joy that I’d had while thinking about Christmas had been brutally defenestrated.

What a wonderful way to ruin the most wonderful time of the year.


	3. T minus five days // S.J.

“—and this is S.J.,” Rachel says.

She puts her hand on my shoulder.

It’s just a hand, though it feels like it’s made of lead and nailing me here so that I can’t ever leave.

“Hi, S.J.”

“Hi, S.J.!”

“Hello.”

“Hi!”

I force a smile and do a little pathetic wave. This is probably any other dude’s fever dream—being alone in a room with five girls—but all I can think about is how massively uncomfortable I am. How out-of-place. There’s a skein of yarn in my lap—worsted weight, one of the young women informs me, wide-eyed and helpful—and knitting needles clenched in my hand that I have no idea what to do with.

“Has Rachel taught you how to cast on yet?”

“Um, no.” I, tragically, cannot remember the name of the person I am talking to right now, and I’m sure that makes me a terrible gentleman, but my mind had been too scrambled to pay attention when everyone had been introducing themselves.

“Oh. Well, here, I can help.” The same person jumps up from the floor, where she’d been sitting with the three other new people, and plops herself down on the couch—brown, of course—next to me, flicking some wayward strands of blonde hair over her shoulder and nearly getting it in my mouth. She takes the knitting needles and plucks the skein off my lap, pulling its label off and unwinding a long, loose end of dark blue yarn. At least it’s blue and not… the fuzzy, neon pink stuff one of the other girls—another brunette, but with a pixie cut—is knitting with. Either way, though, how my dad would be laughing if he could see me. The thought makes my cheeks go bright red, I’m sure, if the heat I’m suddenly feeling rush to my face is any indication.

The blonde’s thighs are really close to my own—she’s wearing jeans, but they’re ripped, which can’t really be the best fashion choice in the middle of winter in Minnesota, but I’m not going to be that arsehole who goes about monitoring what women wear. I don’t know if it’s because of the rips or not, but I swear I can feel the heat eking off her legs and making me uncomfortably warm, and I kind of want to move away even though I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be doing something… I don’t know, confident? Like leaning back and putting my arms over the back of the couch.

I just feel like it would be really weird to lean back all of a sudden, though. I’ve been perched on the edge of this couch ever since I’ve gotten to Rachel’s place, not really sure if I’m going to need to get up any point or not.

“So, you make a loop with a couple fingers like this, just so it’s easy to slip and end of the yarn under. Then you tug, and you’ve got a slip knot. So do that first, and then we can go over casting on,” says Blonde.

She undoes the knot—just pulls the two ends of the yarn and it disappears, quick as that.

I take the yarn from her wordlessly. Copy her actions. I end up with something that’s gotta be at least eight times larger than what she’d made, but she tells me it’s fine and takes it from me to cinch it tight around the needle.

“Then you just wrap a loop around your finger like this—” she does a little twisty motion, “—and then put it on the needle.” She hands me the lot. “You can do like, twenty? That’ll make a pretty good scarf. A scarf’s always a good project to start out with, because they’re just straight knitting, nothing fancy.”

I mumble some affirmation and follow instructions. Rachel, on my other side, sighs contentedly and flings herself back on the couch, slouching down in a way that would’ve made any American father proud; she’s got a giant monstrosity of a half-made green-and-brown sweater dumped on her chest. I don’t really think it’s polite to be staring in that general area, though, so I look away, back to my business, until I can count out twenty loops, tight on my needle.

Just one needle.

Because Blonde is holding the other one.

“You’re doing great!” says Blonde. I wonder if she’s, like, a teacher for a class of little kids. She’s got enough pep to do it, that’s for sure. Maybe a camp counsellor or something? Not that other people can’t be peppy, but white-collar jobs will suck the soul out of you—I certainly feel that way—and Blonde has too much soul to have been in one of _those_ hell-traps.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

She giggles. “Has anyone ever told you that your accent is, like, really cute?”

I flush. “Yeah.”

“Are you British?” she affects a terrible accent to say the last word, and I have to hold back my wince.

“Courtney, don’t pry,” says Rachel, apparently paying more attention to the conversation than I’d thought. I kind of wish she’d step in some more because I’m pretty sure that Blonde— _Courtney_ —is inching closer to me, and I can’t really do anything except smush myself farther into Rachel’s legs.

“I’m not prying,” Courtney says with a little pout. “I’m just curious, is all.” She looks at me expectantly.

“I—um, no. My dad is—was?—and I’m not, like, a citizen or anything, I just I spent a few school years there.”

“That’s amazing,” says Courtney.

I offer a smile at my hands that probably comes out more like a grimace, but at least it’s hidden.

“He doesn’t like to talk about,” Rachel says sharply, sitting up, her knitting falling onto her lap. Her bun is coming apart and sending frizzes of hair tumbling onto her shoulders.

Courtney’s eyebrows raise and she holds her hands up in surrender. “Okay! I didn’t know it was a big deal. You’d tell me if I pried too much, right?”

She puts a hand on my forearm. The others are staring, now, looking up from their own projects—fluffy things, long things, circular things—their eyes and ears wide open, looking for gossip.

“Uh, yeah.”

Courtney smiles and pats my sleeve.

“I can show you how to start, S.J.” Rachel puts her knitting onto the empty sofa seat on her right and steals my needles before Courtney can go for them and insinuate herself as my official mentor.

Courtney, in fact, looks a little peeved at this development, but after she huffs, she goes back to the floor and her violently red afghan. Rachel, on the other hand, has now glued herself tightly to my side like she’s trying to make a point—to someone that must definitely not be me, because I am more than alarmed by this development and keep thinking I’m going to accidentally elbow her and make her hate me from now on. I can _definitely_ feel the press of her chest into my arm as she leans over, and the heat from her thigh.

“You want to hold the needle with the stitches to be knitted in your left hand…”

Compared to casting on, which had been as easy as wrapping a loop of yarn around my finger, this looks like a mess of needles and loops and loose ends of yarn, and without having tried at all, I already know I’m going to cock it up. Had I really been such poor company that Rachel had _needed_ to invite four of her friends over? Like, not just one or two, but _four_. Because it had been just us—just Rachel and me—for, like, an hour, but I must’ve been boring or something? Because then she was texting a couple of her friends, and like fifteen minutes later, the doorbell was ringing and she was jumping up, all full of cheer again—because both of us had been sitting around so before, so awkward it had been painful.

“Here. You try for the second stitch.”

She gives me the needles that are just barely strung together by a pathetically long strand of yarn that does _not_ look anything like what everyone else has got.

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to get the right-hand needle through one of the tight-as-fuck loops on the left one.

“The first row is always the most difficult,” Rachel says sympathetically. “That cast-on technique is really hard to do loose. Here, I can do the first row to make it easi—”

“No, I’ve got it,” I say stubbornly, even though I very much do not have it.

The needle jams itself through the loop so suddenly and so quickly I nearly stab my other hand. Rachel is watching me so closely—like this is a trial I need to pass with flying colors if I ever want to even _dream_ about dating her—that I flush. I remind myself that _that_ ’s the whole reason I’m suffering through this—for Rachel. Because, like, she’s everything a guy could want, right? She’s smart and easygoing and pretty. Like, if any other cool guy were here—like _Bryce_ , for example—she’d have been snapped up already.

I don’t know if that means I should consider myself lucky to be with her, right now? It’s not like any other dude is present—she’d invited _me_ over. And, of course, three of her girl friends.

Can’t forget them.

Pixie Cut is staring at me, her head a little bit tilted, her pink knitting lax in her hands.

I avoid looking at her.

I struggle to pull the needle back through, and then with yanking the old stitch off—struggle a bit too much, because I manage to do it and pull off at least six other stitches at the same time.

“Oh shit,” says Rachel, but she sounds like she’s trying not to smile. “Here—Let me—”

I give her the lot without complaining. She undoes it—all that hard work, all five minutes of it—and her hands blur as she redoes something, casting on over both of the needles, her right hand a doing some confusing motion with two strands of yarn, which is two too many for me to keep track of.

“Hey, S.J.,” Pixie Cut says all of a sudden. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

I glance at Rachel, who is still busy. “Sure.”

“Let’s hop into the kitchen,” says Pixie Cut, folding her knitting down onto the low coffee table in front of the sofa. “Do you guys want anything to drink or eat? Rachel, you have any goodies hidden away?”

One of the other girls, who’s wearing an oversized black SANTA CRUZ sweater, titters. “Don’t forget to check the sewing tin, Acacia. Remember last time she hid all the cookies in there?”

“Because you monsters can’t keep your hands off of all the sweets I buy,” says Rachel good-temperedly. “There’s Lindt chocolates behind the coffee filters in the pantry, if you want.”

“Ooo!” says another girl with auburn hair. “I want the white chocolate ones! I will _literally_ fight you guys for them.”

“You can _have_ all the white chocolate,” says Courtney. “I can’t believe you like that stuff…” her voice fades as I get up and follow Acacia like a lost puppy into the small kitchen and turn the corner so that I can no longer see anyone else.

“Do you guys want coffee to go with those chocolates?” Acacia yells, going straight for a cupboard in the corner with easy familiarity.

“Yeah!”

“Yes, please!”

“Rachel, where’s the coffee?”

“With the filters!”

“So,” says Acacia, spinning around, coffee-making supplies in hand. She slams the cupboard door shut with a bang and I can’t stop my flinch; she’s almost glaring at me, and I have to freeze and wonder if I’ve done anything wrong. “What’s going on with you and Rachel?”

“What? What do you mean? I—um—nothing—”

“Don’t play coy,” says Acacia, turning away to lean over and plug in the coffee machine, a black monstrosity that would look more in-place in a science lab than in someone’s kitchen. She flips up the top, jams in a coffee filter and starts messing around with the giant tub of Folger’s coffee. “Don’t you think it’s kind of cruel to be leading her on?”

“I’m… not? Leading her on?”

Acacia turns around while she dumps a sinful amount of coffee grounds into the machine. “You’re not? So, you…” she drops her voice, “ _like_ her, then?”

“Uh, yeah?” I feel like a teenage boy getting interrogated by his crush’s parents, and I kind of want to run away and turn invisible. “I mean, I _am_ sitting in her living room while you attempt to teach me how to knit.”

Acacia laughs. “Well, you don’t need to make it sound like pulling teeth. It’s really fun, you know, once you get the hang of it.” She gets all serious again; raises a perfect eyebrow. “But. If you like her, why haven’t you done anything yet?”

I blink.

“Like…” she lowers her voice even _more_ and steps close, her chest almost pressing against mine, putting her hands on my upper arms, her grip light but enough for me to feel it through my sweater, and she is the kind of _really_ close, like if I just ducked my head down, I could kiss her. Not that I want to kiss Acacia. Like, at all. I’m sure she’s nice, but when I look at her, there’s nothing, and I wonder if maybe I’m a little bit broken; wonder if it would be different with Rachel, who I want. Are guys supposed to want _every_ girl?

“Okay. I’m not supposed to be telling you this.” She’s been looking at my chest, but then she tilts her head up to meet my eyes; she’s the shortest of the lot, and she barely goes up to my chin. “ _But_. Rachel likes you. Like, _like_ -likes you. And she’s, like, texted me about this—and remember, you can _never_ tell her I told you about this. Ever. Like even if you get married.”

I choke.

“—and, y’know, she’s wondering when you’re going to man up and make a move.”

“Make a move?”

“Yeah.” Acacia looks at me like I’m a little crazy, which I might be. “Like, kiss her or something, dude! You said you liked her!”

“ _Kiss_ her?” I feel like an idiot parrot.

“Oh my god, yes. Dear lord. Are you a Mormon? Are you not allowed to do anything before marriage?”

“I—uh, _no_. I’m not a Mormon—”

“Great. So what’s the issue here? You like her, she likes you, you’re both cute. What are you waiting for, Christmas Day and some convenient mistletoe to walk under?”

“Uh—”

“Because if you like her, go get her. Otherwise, she’s not going to stick around forever, some other dude’s gonna sweep her off her feet, and it won’t matter that you have a British accent anymore. Yeah?”

“Um, yeah?”

“There’s the spirit!” She shakes me a little bit, enough for my head to wobble, then abruptly spins me around so my back’s to the counter, lets me go, and trots right on out of the kitchen. “Rachel!” she wails theatrically. “The coffee maker’s broken! You need to go look at it! It made the most _horrible_ clunking noise, and I don’t know what I’ve done!”

There’re some titters as I hear the commotion of Rachel getting unseated and pushed towards the doorway, and I very briefly consider fleeing.

Rachel’s saying something to Acacia, and then she’s in the kitchen doorway, and Acacia shoves her all the way in and disappears back into the living room.

Rachel gives me a long-suffering smile.

“I don’t know anything about the coffee machine,” I say quickly. “I, ah, probably won’t be able to help you with it.”

“That’s fine,” says Rachel, and then she’s by my side, poking the thing, and even though she’s not looking at me, I’m sure I’m supposed to do something, right? I’m fairly positive nothing’s wrong with the coffee machine at all and Acacia had just been using that as an excuse to get Rachel in here with me, away from all the other people who would definitely watch us, but they probably know what’s going on, regardless.

“This just happens sometimes, it’s really old.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah,” sighs Rachel. “It used to be my parents’, but they gave it to me when I left for college. I guess they knew how many all-nighters I would be pulling.”

“That’s… cool.”

“Is it?” she looks at me and tilts her head a little, a faint smile playing on her lips. She’s taken out her bun, and her straight hair has tumbled down to her chest, playing around the V-collar of her shirt. “I didn’t know you were so interested in my college coffee habits.”

“I guess I’m just… pretty interested in everything about you.” I cringe, internally, but she must like those words, because she leans forward a little bit; without shoes on, she’s only an inch or so shorter than me, and she’s close enough that I can smell faint, flowery perfume.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Yeah.” And it’s easy—so easy to lean down a little bit and touch my lips to hers; her eyes flutter shut and I feel her hands winding around my neck. I want to touch her hair, see if it’s as soft as it looks, so I do; it’s not, like, down-soft, but it’s alright, and she doesn’t complain when I cup the back of her head.

It’s not like romance books make it seem: no explosions go off behind my eyes or anything. It’s just really nice, and when she pulls away, she’s smiling hard, and I can’t help but to offer her a little grin too.

Finally.


	4. T minus four days // Bryce

“Wow,” says Lucky. “This was _not_ what I was picturing when you said family tensions were high right now.”

We’re staring at the carnage in the living room: the tree, tipped over onto the dark gray couch, nine feet of devastation; ornaments shattered everywhere; the cats having a field day with the dangling lights and garlands.

On the other end of the house, Viv’s locked door slams loudly enough to make the walls rattle; Dad pounds on it, yelling louder than I’ve ever heard him yell before. Mom has barricaded herself in the kitchen with _yeye_ and _nainai_ , and Amy and Andrew are out on a playdate (thank god) so they aren’t here to witness this butchery of holiday cheer (and make it worse). I’m fairly sure Peter’s in his room, but since he’s probably playing video games, I doubt we’ll see him.

“Honestly?” I say. “I didn’t think it would get this bad.”

“I guess your dad _really_ doesn’t like this Paul guy, huh?”

“Yeah, you could probably say that.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard _half_ of those cuss words before,” he says, wide-eyed, while I try to grab the cats.

“Ugh, don’t remind me of your innocence,” I say, nearly tripping over several branches as I lunge for Belle. She scampers under the trunk of the tree where she knows I can’t reach and blinks at me with innocent blue eyes, like she hadn’t just been trying to eat a bauble.

“Need some help there?”

“Yeah, go get a broom or some shit to scare these little beasts out from their new playground. We can’t get the tree back up if they’re going to be clinging to it and yowling the whole time.”

Lucky blinks, looking around, then picks a careful path to the kitchen, where he knocks on the door until my mom opens up.

Viv is screaming back at Dad through the closed door.

Lucky disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room, and I sigh, burying my face in my hands. This is the worst possible way this afternoon could have gone, and now we have to get all this shit cleaned up before the twins get back home, otherwise they’ll probably end up in the emergency room after having tried to climb up the sideways tree “for fun” and impaled themselves on spiky branches. Someone’s gotta drive over to their friend’s house and pick them up at four thirty, which leaves us barely two hours to return the state of this room to normal; to pretend this never happened.

“DON’T YOU DISRESPECT ME!” Dad’s bellowing now. As if she’s scared by the sound, Hairbrush creeps out from under the trunk and into grabbing range; I lunge for her, ignoring the way more ornaments tinkle as my legs get stabbed by branches, and haul her out from her hiding place by her tail before she can get back under there and start eating the garland—there’s speckles of silver plastic around her mouth that says she’s been at it already, and she’s covered in enough tinsel to make a new living as a yeti.

She wails like I’m killing her, squirming in my hands, and I haul ass out of the tree, yelping and jumping away as I step on a crushed ornament, barely managing to hang on to the cat. “Fucking pieces of shit!”

Lucky appears with a broom and dustpan.

“Take this!”

He recoils like I’m offering him a live wire and not a domestic animal. “Uh, I don’t really know if I want to—”

Hairbrush rakes her claws down my arm, and I bite back several more nasty swear words. “Lucky, I swear to god, you take this cat right now or I’m going to chuck her out the window!”

“Right, okay,” he says hastily. “I don’t think your mom would like that turn of events.” But he balances the broom and dustpan against the wall and holds his hands out for the cat, which I dump in his arms; he squeaks when she tries to bite him and hightails it back to the kitchen before he can sustain more wounds.

I grab the broom and turn to glare at Belle, who’s watching me, tail twitching, her claws sunken into a fat little stuffed Santa ornament. “Little bitch.” I have to inspect the bottom of my foot before I go anywhere; I could swear I’m bleeding, but when I peel off my socks I don’t see any punctured skin, which is a minor miracle.

I clear a path through the mess so that I can get to the other side of the tree. I find the ceramic angel that usually decorates the top of the tree on the floor behind the couch, shattered, and I can’t really muster that much remorse, because I’ve always hated that angel and her terrible, judgmental face, like she was going to go straight to God and report me for being gay, like in a bad way. I wonder how sneaky I’m going to have to be to toss her pieces in the trash so Mom doesn’t have the opportunity to try and superglue her back together.

I temporarily sweep her under the couch and stalk back and forth until I see Belle’s butt, then I shove the broom under there and waggle it violently.

She shrieks and launches herself out from under the tree just as Lucky turns around in the kitchen doorway, and I feel bad for how he gets climbed like a trellis. He yelps, does a weird dance move that even I haven’t seen (when considering the amount of clubs I frequent), and then Bella dismounts and zooms into the kitchen to plague Mom; Lucky, harried as he is, manages to slam the door shut.

Dad stops ranting and starts stomping down the hallway, and then a moment later he’s stomping through the living room (Lucky presses himself against the door like he doesn’t want to be noticed), still steaming. He steps on an ornament before I can call out a warning, but he doesn’t even look at anyone: he does this ungainly hop-thingy, cusses loudly, gets to the foyer, jams his feet in his shoes, and goes out, slamming the door behind him so hard that it rattles in its hinges and shakes the house.

There’s a long pause of uncomfortable silence—I’m almost unused to it, after the long scream-fest.

“Yipe,” says Lucky, eventually.

“And _that_ ’s why I don’t live here anymore,” I say.

Lucky offers me one of those awkward white-person smiles.

The sight is slightly cheering.

“So, what’re we gonna do first?” he asks, looking around. “This is, like… a huge mess.”

I grimace. “Let’s sweep so we don’t kill our feet fixing everything else. Then we can see if the tree can be salvaged.” I glance over the few Christmas ornaments that have managed to stay intact—the count isn’t high, considering that most of the things we put on there are very delicate and very breakable and had gone careening onto the floor when the tree toppled. I hope that the tree hasn’t gotten wrecked; the couch seems to have cushioned most of its fall, so the branches it’s leaning on shouldn’t be in too bad shape. I pray anyway to a god I don’t believe in, because I don’t want to have to go out and buy a new tree before four thirty just so Amy and Andrew never get wind of what happened while they were out. The rest of the family might be completely batshit crazy, but the twins are only six and don’t deserve to caught up in all this fuckery.

“You got more than one broom?”

“Somewhere in the basement, if you want to go look amongst all the spiders.”

Lucky shudders.

“Otherwise, I’ll just clear a path for you and you can pick up the big bits. Ugh, actually, go in the kitchen and ask Mom to hand over the trash so we don’t have to keep walking back and forth.”

He disappears into the kitchen with almost a relieved speed.

“Don’t let the cats out!” I yell, and the door shuts very quickly, though not before I see a forlorn gray paw.

I sigh and yank the broom out from under the tree. I suppose I could’ve been more careful—a couple more baubles crash to a gruesome death on the hardwood floor—but my temper’s getting all twisted up as a result from listening to Dad and Viv’s fight, and I feel like punching something, just a little. If Michael was around, instead of Lucky, and not slutting around in Japan, we probably would’ve roughed each other up a little before getting to cleaning, but I can’t rough Lucky up because we’re not that kind of friends, and even if we were, Lucky is nearly half my size and would probably die of a heart attack, like a rabbit when it gets too scared.

Ugh, what has my life come to?

I stab myself reaching for the tree and shove it upright. It wobbles rather precariously, and I tell myself that’s something I’ll take care of later, and I work on violently sweeping all the shattered ornaments to the front of the room. I’m just glad our house isn’t carpeted, because then this would be _more_ work; as it is, Lucky comes back with a trash bin and another broom and starts sweeping, too.

“Kind of illogical,” he says a little bit quietly while I’m shaking the dustbin into the trash, “that your mom can invite people over for Christmas but nobody else can’t?”

I pull a face. “Don’t remind me.”

“You’re not looking forward to it _that_ much?”

I shoot him a flat look. “How would you feel if _your_ par— _dad_ —invited strangers over for a family holiday? At least I vaguely know Paul, even if I think he hasn’t changed his clothes in two years.”

“Yeah, but consider: do you want that guy in his two-year-old outfit sitting in your chairs?”

“No,” I grumble. “Does that mean Dad had to lose his ever-loving shit? Also no.”

Lucky snorts and fishes under the couch with his broom.

In the kitchen, one of the cats yowls and scrabbles at the closed door.

“Your tree’s kinda fucked, isn’t it?”

“Don’t say that,” I hiss, stepping in front of the slightly battered tree to hide it from his judgmental eyes. “She’s _sensitive_!”

“I think one of your cats chewed straight through the lights,” he points out, and I groan. Shove the dustpan in his hand and avoid non-sweepable wreckage to search for the plugin and… well… plug it in. The bottom half of the Christmas tree lights up in rainbow colors, the top depressingly staying dark.

“For fuck’s sake.”

“It’ll probably be fine,” Lucky says, obviously trying to cheer me up. “We can just…” he looks around, “…chuck out all the wrecked stuff—we’re gonna need a second bag here—and then make a quick run to Target. A string of lights is, what, ten bucks? Ten-ish bucks? Er, you might want a new garland too.” He eyes the ruined spaghetti tapeworm that Hairbrush has made of the one-fluffy tinsel garland. “And we can pick up some bulbs, too. The basic ones come in sets of fifty for like, fifteen dollars. So that’s what… fifty-five bucks? And Christmas is saved.”

“Did _someone_ go Christmas shopping recently?”

“Listen. I set foot in Target sometimes. I know you like all your designer stores and local businesses where one ‘boutique’—” (he does little finger quotes) “—Christmas ornament costs a hundred bucks, but not all of us can spend that kind of money all the time. And, in times like this, it’s obviously not _prudent_ to spend a hundred bucks per ornament, even if they’re handmade. You’ll be broke by the time the holidays are over and then you’ll have to move to Nevada and become a prostitute to pay off the bills for your motorhome.”

I snort.

“So?”

“You know, if you just wanted an excuse to go to Target, that was all you had to say.”

Lucky glares at me. “Jesus, you are _impossible_.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” I agree, starting to tug the wrecked garland off the tree while Lucky finishes sweeping; the couch shrieks as he shoves it aside.

“What the fuck is this?” he mutters. Something clanks.

“Fuck!” I hiss, jumping to realization. “Lucky. _Lucky_. That angel? Throw it away. Right now. Like, _bury_ it underneath all the little shit in the bin and then we’ll put it in the garbage can when we leave for shopping.”

“Geez, I didn’t know you felt so strongly about it.”

“Yeah, and if anyone asks, I didn’t say anything or even see you throw it away. Okay? You accidentally made a horrible, _terrible_ mistake; one that you’re just _so_ ashamed for and you _swear_ it will never happen again; one that I will very generously endorse, but in private.”

“Is that why you’re not turning around?” Lucky asks, amused, but I hear the trash bin tinkle, so I figure we’re as close to safe as we can get. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you’ll pay me for some shit like this but you still refuse to buy your own video games.”

“Shut up.” I dump my broom on the floor and very carefully fold up the tree skirt, handing it over to Lucky. “Go shake this outside, would you?”

“Want me to take the trash with?”

“Please.”

He laughs quietly but does as told, so I can’t really complain; I busy myself by sweeping under the tree and taking any broken ornaments off where they’re still clinging to the branches.

I’m a couple seconds in when I hear the hallway creaking; a second later, I see Peter’s face peeking out from behind the corner, his eyes a little wide.

“Woah? So the tree really fell over?”

“Yeah.”

He waggles his phone. “Viv texted me about it.” He watches me for a couple more seconds then nods jerkily and disappears. Great. Not that I was _expecting_ him to help or anything, but it would’ve been nice. You know, the more hands the merrier and all that crap, since this season is in desperate need of some merriment.

The door whines as Lucky lets himself back in, pink-cheeked. “Your dad’s fucking around in the garage,” he says. “Should I be worried? Sounds like he’s raising Frankenstein’s monster. Or maybe assembling a coffin for you sister."

“He’s fine,” I say, nudging the growing pile of new trash toward him. “It’s better than him pacing around in the house for the next three hours interjected by him yelling at Viv some more every thirty minutes.”

“Yike,” says Lucky, who grew up in a happy, loving home, and probably had no idea how long (and how many therapy sessions) it took for me to become an adjusted, functioning adult.

“Indeed.” I get the tree stripped and chuck the skirt back under the tree while Lucky doubles down on trash duty. A moment later, I hear the hall floor squeak again.

“Hey, uh. You guys want some help?”

I yank out the last of the lights from where they’re knotted around the base of the trunk—courtesy of the cats—and look up. Peter’s waffling in the living room entryway.

“Sure,” I say, trying to affect casualness so as not to scare him away with the prospect of menial work. “We’re pretty much done here, just gotta shove the furniture back and then we’re gonna go on the cheapest shopping spree you’ve ever been on.”

Lucky snorts.

“You wanna drive?”

“Can I?” Peter asks, eyes sparkling.

I toss him the keys. “You crash my car, you pay me a hundred bucks.”

“I won’t crash!” he says, already rushing across the living room to the door.

“Put some clothes on!” I yell, because he’s in a tank top and pajama bottoms and I cannot in good faith, as his brother and an agent of fashion, let him go out like that. He makes a U-turn and dashes back to his room.

“You trust him with your car?” Lucky says skeptically.

“Well, he hasn’t run into anything _yet_.”

“You have such low standards.”

“You have no idea,” I say, eyeing him as he ties up the second trash bag of the day. I sigh and turn away, shaking the tree a bit to see how bad it’s wobbling and ducking down to fix the screws on its stand so it doesn’t errantly fall down while we’re gone. I can only hope that Dad and Viv don’t go at it again once we leave, but I figure with ninety percent of the decorations off the tree, there’s a limit to how much more it can be ruined.

Then Peter skids back into the room in a tatty hoodie and jeans, somehow pulling on socks at the same time and Lucky’s bundling outside and I’m reaching for my coat and following them, listening to the overexcited slam of car doors and the bang of the garbage can lid as Lucky tosses the bag in.

“Should I be worried for my safety?” he mutters, jogging to catch up to me, his shoulder brushing my arm.

“Only a little,” I say. “I took him on a fishtailing field trip last time it snowed and he seemed to take that as instructions instead of caution every time he goes around a corner.”

“Oh, _wonderful_ ,” says Lucky weakly.

“At least there’s no snow on the ground,” I point out.

“The idea makes me so much happier.” Regardless, he piles morosely into the backseat while I get into shotgun; Peter’s already fussing with the radio, skipping over a million stations until he gets to one on which the Jackson 5 are hollering about Santa.

“Okay, okay, Bry, you’re going to be so impressed,” he says, slapping a hand on the back of my headrest as he twists around (I swear this kid has no bones) to back out of the driveway clunkily; I yelp as he barely avoids knocking off my side mirror on the trash can, which hasn’t been put away from this morning. “I’ve been _practicing_ , and Dad didn’t even have to yell any warnings to me _at all_ last time we went out.”

“That’s great, dude,” I say. “Also, you’re literally in the middle of the road right now, and there’s a car coming toward us.”

“Fuck, shit.” He veers the wheel to get back in his proper lane, making me need to throw out a hand before my shoulder gets jammed into the window.

In the back, Lucky whimpers.

I am, not for the first time, glad that Target is less than ten blocks away.


	5. T minus three days // S.J.

“So, how is Rachel?”

“She’s good.” I twirl my fork through the spaghetti, trying not to think too hard about what those dark lumps might be.

“How was your playdate with her on Sunday?”

“It wasn’t a _playdate_ , Mum. I’m an adult.”

She giggles. “Well, what did you do?”

“Nothing. We just… sat around and watched a movie. You know. Stuff.”

She frowns. “I hope you didn’t have sex with her, Sunny.”

“Mum!”

“Well, what is it the kids say these days? Netflix and chill? Were you Netflix and chilling?”

“No, Mum, it was just a movie, okay?”

“Alright,” Mum says. “That sounds fun,” Mum says. “Did you enjoy it?”

I mumble a faint affirmative for a movie that I haven’t watched, because I’d never hear the end of it if Mum finds out I’d been _knitting_.

There’s quiet, for a couple minutes, the only sound being the clink of forks on plates while Mum eats and I mostly just fiddle with my cutlery, praying for an excuse to leave the table before I have to force down another bite, because what’s on the table might look, vaguely, like spaghetti, but it does not taste like it. At all. Somehow, it tastes like a mix between weed killer and gasoline, and I’ve been seriously afraid from my health ever since forcing down the first mouthful. It had taken enormous self-restraint not to gag and run for the bin.

 _At least she’s trying_ , I think. Neither she nor Dad had made an effort when I’d been a kid: ninety percent of the time it had been fast food for meals when I wasn’t in school and eating cafeteria lunches; neither of them had cooked. I didn’t even know if they _could_ cook. Mum’s current monstrosity points towards: no.

I guess I should be a little bit thankful for Mrs Qiao, who is apparently working on helping Mum learn, but if this is the outcome… I can’t really be grateful. Because this isn’t great. The whole situation is only exacerbated by Mum insisting that I come home to eat as much as possible.

Suddenly: “You really shouldn’t take advantage of that poor girl, you know?”

“What?” I look up from mashing the too-soft noodles into paste.

Mum’s frowning. “She’s obviously not very… confident in her abilities to attract men, is she? I’ve looked through your phone and seen the recent pictures—She used to be very pretty as a little girl, but now—”

“What? Mum! How did you get on my phone?” I let go of the fork—it falls with clatter—and glare at her. How—how the bloody hell did she get on my phone? I have it locked all the time _because_ she’s always looking for a chance to go through it—

“Don’t yell at me, Sunny.” She’s already got tears welling in her eyes.

I flinch, look down at my plate. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Mum. I just—you know I don’t like it when you don’t respect my privacy—”

“I just want you to be _happy_ , Sunny,” she says, and now she’s sniffling and I feel horrible, like I’ve killed her pet or something. “Is it too much for me to want my only son to be happy? I don’t want you to end up like me…”

“Don’t cry, Mum.” Should get up from my chair and walk around the table and comfort her? Guilt is welling in the pit of my stomach and making me nauseous, and I look away because I can’t stand to look at her.

“I’m not crying.” She sniffs again plaintively, then uses her table napkin to blow her nose. I see the red stains her tomato-sauce lips have made on the cloth when she folds it sloppily. “I just want to make sure you end up with someone nice, yeah? Like Tiffany. Remember Tiffany from high school?”

“Yes, Mum.” I look at my spaghetti. Water is slowly draining out of the sauce and pooling at the bottom of the plate, making soup. A faint, rancid smell is emanating from the plate, like Mum’s made this dish with spoiled ingredients.

“Tiffany was such a wonderful girl. Top of the class, you remember? She spoke at your graduation, I have her speech filmed somewhere, maybe it’s on my phone…” mumbling, she twists around to pull her purse, which is slung over the back of the chair, into her lap. She digs around, endless things clanking around.

“Yeah, Mom, I remember, you don’t need to show me.”

“..such a good speech!” says Mum. “I remember the beginning, it had something to do with Snicker bars….”

I don’t tell Mum that this is because Tiffany had been comparing candy to drugs.

“…you should’ve spoken at graduation, Sunny! You know I would’ve loved to see you up there so much, why did you speak?”

“I wasn’t valedictorian, Mum.” 

“Oh, right. Why not?” She’s still looking in her purse for her phone.

“I only attended half a semester.”

She looks up, puzzled, for a second, and then she says, “Oh, right,” her expression clearing in remembrance. Remembrance about how Dad had stolen me away after sixth grade to fuck on off to the East End for the next five and a half years. Five and a half years of confusion and loneliness; not understanding why I wasn’t going back home; wishing I could go back to my friends—well, _one_ friend—but then when Dad finally shipped me back on that plane alone with one backpack full of my stuff, I returned to a place I didn’t recognize at all.

“I can’t find my phone,” Mum says. “Did you take my phone?”

“No. I don’t have it.” I bite back the words that want to escape— _Why would I have your phone? You’re more interested in_ my _phone than I am in_ yours—and instead say, “Maybe you left it in a different room or something?”

“No,” Mum says. “I always keep it in my purse. Are you _sure_ you don’t have it? Turn out your pockets, Sunny.”

I sigh and stand up, knowing she’s not going to let this go—only rise in hysteria—until I do this, and I put my phone on the table and turn my slacks pockets inside-out, showing her the white fabric.

Mum doesn’t even pay attention, because she’s snatched my phone.

“Mum! What are you doing? Give that back!” I very nearly lunge across the table to fight her for it before remember that I’m an adult.

She presses her finger on the button, and my phone unlocks.

“MUM!” My blood’s boiling now: what the hell? When did she get her fingerprint on there? “Give me back my phone!”

“See, Sunny!” she says, accusatorily pointing to my home screen. “See, what’s this?”

“That’s Rachel,” I grit, holding out my hand. “Give me my phone.”

“Why is there a picture of Rachel as your background?”

“Because we’re dating, okay?” I kind of yell it out, and don’t care that I’m being so, so rude: I’m angry, and there’s a weird, twisted sickness rising in my throat like bile. Dinner is forgotten.

“You’re dating?” My mom’s face looks like one of those pictures in kids’ books that try to teach you emotions: _Surprise_ , her mouth open in a perfect ‘O,’ her eyes, crusted with too much mascara and eyeliner, are wide. Her drawn-on eyebrows, green, are high on her forehead.

“We’re dating. Please, can you give me my phone back?” I feel like a child, now, begging.

Mum’s face collapses. She’s still holding my phone, and I’m remembering all those times as a kid when she’d take it away whenever I misbehaved and hide it, like it wasn’t something that was ever mine: just a bargaining tool to be used to assure my compliance with her demands.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She jerks her hand back when I try to grab for my phone.

“I’m telling you now. Why is your fingerprint on my phone?”

She looks confused. Eventually, admittance: “I used your thumb while you were sleeping to get on your phone. I wanted to make sure you were safe, baby.”

“Mum!” I yell. “I’m an _adult_! You can’t do that kind of shi— _thing_ anymore!”

And then she’s crying, for real now, folded up around my phone, and I want to throw up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says. “You have to believe me, Sunny, I’m so sorry, you’re my baby, I just had to make sure you were safe, please don’t yell at me, I’m s-s-sorry.”

I feel so, so sick. I don’t know if it’s me or her who’s fucked up more; I can’t tell if this is all my fault or hers. I want to comfort her; I want to run out of this apartment and never return. It’s so easy to be functioning when I don’t have to think about Mum or Dad or my past, and it’s so hard to be functioning when I’m here and being suffocated by the way things used to be.

“Okay, Mum,” I say softly, like she’s a scared animal. “Okay. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. I didn’t mean it, I promise. Please, may I have my phone back?”

She looks at me with shining eyes. “You didn’t? Mean it?”

“No. I’m sorry, I didn’t. Sorry.”

She sniffs, loudly, looking down at my phone. It’s still on, Rachel’s face smiling up at the ceiling: it’s a picture that isn’t on her Instagram—a picture she’d sent me a couple months ago after October had dumped a couple of inches of snow on urban Minnesota: she’s in the yard, pushing a medium-sized ball of snow to make a snowman, her pigtails sticking out at odd angles under her red hat and over her thick red coat. She isn’t a supermodel, like Bryce, but the photo’s adorable: she looks _human_ , not like a marble statue that deserves to be in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Then the screen goes dark.

“Can I please have my phone back?” I whisper. I’m terrified that she’s not going to give it back, and I’m going to be stuck: stuck without any way to contact anyone else, all alone in this apartment, trapped. No escape.

Mum sniffs once more. Then she uncurls and holds out my phone: two and half by five and a half inches of metal that contains my most important things.

I take with a feeling of relief akin to that of finding salvation, clutching it tightly so she can’t take it again. When I’m alone, I’m going to have to go through every single document on there; make sure she didn’t alter anything in any way. How long has she had access to my phone? Oh, God, I’m going to have to take her fingerprint off so she can’t keep getting in… or is that even worth it? I’m going to be staying with her for the next fourteen days, she could just pull the same trick again, maybe I should just let her have access to it. It would be easier, wouldn’t it? I could just check everything when I got back to New York. Even as soon as I’m in the airport, past security, so she can’t get to me anymore.

“Thank you,” I say.

She grabs my hand: clutches it. “Sunny. I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah.”

The sickness is abating, a little, now that I’ve _physically_ got my phone back, but part of it is still there, a low-level ache in the back of my mind and in the bottom of my stomach, screaming at me that something isn’t _quite_ right, but I can’t _fix_ it. I should just wait. Wait a couple days and it’ll go away.

Go back to normal, as much normal as it can be.

She sniffles again and then lets me go, settles back into her chair. “Sit down, sit down,” she urges, flapping her hands, the past ten minutes forgotten as if she’d snapped her fingers.

I put my phone in my phone in my pocket. Sit down.

Mum frowns at my plate. “You’re not eating. Do you not like it? I worked so hard.”

I’m not sure if I’m hallucinating but I think I might see her bottom lip wobble. “No, no, it’s fine,” I say. “It’s good. Great. I’m just not really super hungry right now.”

Mum frowns. “Did you eat over at _Rachel_ ’s?” She doesn’t exactly _spit_ her name out, but she certainly doesn’t sound… happy about Rachel’s existence.

“I, uh, yeah. A little.”

Mum forks another solid mouthful of spaghetti. She chews and swallows like there’s no problem, and I watch in horror—fascination?—as it happens. “You shouldn’t eat out,” Mum scolds. “You know, I’ve been reading nutrition books recently, and you have _no idea_ what kind of stuff they put in food nowadays. All those preservatives and chemicals and antibiotics. I’m starting to get allergies, you know, from all those non-organic foods. Even some organic foods too! Cross pollination, you know, it makes it so hard nowadays for things to be _truly_ organic. They make me all red and itchy, I’ve been to the doctor, but she says there’s nothing wrong with me! Can you believe her? I went a different doctor, too, a man, to get a better opinion, and he had the gall to say the same thing, I can’t believe America keeps their citizens so ignorant. So I’ve started taking vitamin pills…”

I nod along, going back to mashing up my spaghetti, eyes downcast. Wonder—and feel terrible about it—if I can get my plane ticket switched to a sooner date. Escape back to New York. Maybe I could leave this apartment and stay in a hotel? No, I can’t leave Mum alone. She lives alone every single day of the year when I’m not here, I can’t subject her to more of that just because I’m weak.

“…you should appreciate this spaghetti. I made it all from scratch: the noodles, the sauce. Let me tell you, it took _forever_! I think I might’ve messed up a little bit—the noodles disintegrate a little bit, but it’s not too bad, right?” She gives me such a hopeful look.

“No, it’s great.” I force myself to smile and take a small bite. I almost gag as I chew and stop myself by sheer force of will because my lies will all be for nothing if my body can give me away so easily.

“I’m so glad you like it! Make sure you don’t eat too much, though, Sunny. You look so good nowadays, I swear, you’ve lost so much weight, I wish I could look like you. What have you been eating in New York? You should learn to cook, you know. Home-made food would be much, much better for you than all that processed crap you get at restaurants and the supermarket.”

“I cook a little bit,” I mumble.

“You do?” She pounces, gleeful. “What do you make? Maybe you can share some recipes with me, and I can share mine with you! Oh, I know: Sunny, we absolutely _have_ to spend a day cooking together!”

I stir a tiny circle through the mess on my plate. “That sounds great,” I say, even though I’d literally rather have body parts cut off than do that. I don’t think I ever want to be in a kitchen at the same time as her: I’d woken up the first day back, not knowing the extent of her cooking obsession, and tried to make myself scrambled eggs: she’d hovered the entire time, critiquing and critiquing and critiquing about all the things I could be doing better, all the things I should be adding or taking out, and I had just barely managed to refrain from screaming that it was _just scrambled eggs_.

Eventually, I’d just given up and let her do it.

And then I’d taken one bite of what she’d made and realized how terrible the situation was, really.

“Just easy stuff. Quick stuff. I mostly eat out. There’s a food court super close to work—Brookfield Place—”

She scoffs. “Sunny, really! After what I just told you! You have to be careful about what you eat, you know, otherwise you’re going to get fat again and no girl is ever going to want you. You don’t _have_ to be handsomer than her, you know, but at least—”

“Mum. I _have_ a girlfriend already.”

She grinds to a halt. A look of distaste spreads across her face like an oil blemish spreading across water. “Oh, yes.”

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?”

“That… disgusted look. Every time I talk about Rachel. What’s wrong with Rachel?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her, baby. Whatever makes you happy. I just thought…”

“What?”

“I don’t know, that you’d choose someone a little better? She’s a bit plain, don’t you think?”

“I think she’s beautiful,” I say coldly. “And she graduated summa cum laude from Harvard.”

“That’s great, baby. What does she do? What’s her salary?”

“She’s a physician’s assistant at Park Nicollet. And I haven’t asked about her salary.”

“You will, though, right?”

“Why, Mum? That seems like pretty private information, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t want you to marry a _miser_ , Sunny, you need a woman to take care of you—”

“Mum. That’s, like, disgustingly sexist and so nineteen-hundreds.”

She shakes her head. “Sunny, you have to make good decisions—”

“And you think I’m not making good decisions right now? What am I doing wrong, Mum, tell me! I graduated high school and I went to college and I graduated college and I got a job and I’ve got my own apartment and I met a cute girl and, you know, I think I’m doing great! Why do you have to keep dragging me down?”

Her eyes well with tears. “I’m not dragging you down, I promise, why would you say such a thing?”

I stare at her, sick to my stomach.

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re happy!”

“I’m already happy! Stop trying to control my life!” I force myself to get up before I can start yelling—we’re in an _apartment_ , the walls are thin—and the chair screeches on the linoleum floor.

“Where are you going?” Mum cries. “Aren’t you going to finish your food?”

“I’m not hungry,” I say. Pick up the plate. Turn towards to the kitchen. “Don’t get up,” I tell her. “I’ll wash up.”

At least then, hopefully, I’ll get a few quiet moments to myself. Free from talking. Free from nagging. Free from criticism. Just me and the terrible, horrible thought that I shouldn’t have come back.


	6. T minus two days // Bryce

I’ve just pulled into a parking space a couple blocks from Gay 90’s when my phone rings. _Marshmallow_ , says my caller ID.

I pick up. “Hey, Amy.”

“Bry?” Her voice is small and hushed; I’m immediately on high alert because she never sounds like that.

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Hi! Um, can you come home?”

“Home? Why, what’s up?” I hear sticky little hands adjusting themselves; shouting in the background.

That’s not good.

“Vivi’s boyfriend broke up with her. She threw a plate at Dad and now everyone’s going ballistic.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “This can’t wait? For, like, two hours? Is it really that bad?”

“Everyone’s yelling and it’s so loud. I’m scared, Bry.”

I sigh. Stare outside, longingly, because this isn’t even a choice. “Alright. I’ll be there in less than twenty, ’kay?”

“’Kay, Bry.”

“And if you’re really scared, you go downstairs and hide under the guest bed, okay?”

“I can’t, _yeye_ and _nainai_ are down there. I don’t want to be alone with them, they’re scary and wrinkly. Can I have a hug when you get here?”

“’Course, mallowbear. Do you wanna stay on the phone while I drive? Where’s Andrew?” I start the car and connect my phone to the Bluetooth so I can throw it onto the empty passenger seat, chucking any fantasies of one-night stands out the window. I glance out at the road before pulling out of my parking space. Another car takes it before I’m even fully out, which is just rude; I consider flipping off the driver.

The phone changes hands and then I hear Andrew’s voice: “Bry?”

“Hey, bud. What’s up?”

“Are you coming home?”

“Yep, on my way right now.”

“Okay. Can you tell Dad to stop yelling?” He’s quiet: even quieter than Amy, and I can picture the two of them huddled around the old flip phone that Mom had grudgingly allowed them to have for “emergencies.” In the background, muffled, Viv’s yelling herself hoarse. It sounds like she’s ugly-crying, too.

“Sure,” I say, though that wouldn’t be a pleasant task. “Go give him the phone for a sec?”

“I don’t really want to go outside,” Andrew whispers.

“Okay bud, you stay where you are then, okay?” I put on my blinker and merge onto I-94.

“Uh huh.”

There’s a little rustle, then Amy’s back on. “Bry?”

“Yep?”

“Can you speed? You know, just a little bit? Like, not a lot to go to jail. I don’t want you to go to jail.”

I don’t tell her I’m already going eighty-five on this sixty-m.p.h. highway. I’m not going so fast because I’m worried someone’s going to get hurt—Dad stopped with the rattan cane after Viv had been born, so only I bear the memories of that—but because who knows how long this fight has been going on; the neighbors are going to start talking if this becomes a regular thing and I really don’t want my siblings to be taken away by social services because white people don’t understand immigrant families.

“Yep, I’m going fast. So fast that if you were here, you’d look out the window and scream.”

Amy giggles faintly, but it sounds a little wet, like she’s been crying, and I hate that. “I would never!”

There’s the sound of shifting clothes—they must be in their closet—and some indignation from Andrew: “Amy, hold it in the middle! I want to hear him, too.”

“You definitely would,” I say. I check my mirrors to make sure that I’m not being followed by police and switch lanes, coming up on my exit.

I hear a door open. There’s a terrified squeal; I nearly shit my pants, and then I hear Amy say: “ _Peter_!”

There’s some faint talking I can’t catch.

“It’s Bry! No, stop it! You can’t have my phone!”

“I don’t want your stupid phone! Scoot over.”

“You can’t fit in here! Go away back to your computer!”

“I don’t want to,” Peter hisses. “Bry? Are you coming home?” Then he yelps. “Ow! Stop kicking me! Little—”

“No cussing! I’m on my way.”

“Not that I, like, care or anything,” Peter says, trying to be cool, because he’s fourteen and at _that_ phase in life where he absolutely definitely doesn’t need anybody to take care of him, no sir. “It’s just getting _really_ loud.”

“Go away, Peter!” Amy complains. “This is _our_ room.”

The shouting gets louder as I turn off the highway, like Viv and Dad are coming down the hall; footsteps are falling hard and fast, and then Amy and Andrew are yelping as Peter unseats them from whatever setup they’ve got going on and jams himself into the closet with them, closing the door with a _snick_.

“Bry? Are you close?”

“Yeah, couple more minutes, okay? Just hang on.” I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the light in front of me to turn green. The house is a couple blocks from this junction; maybe three minutes, less if I go a little fast and blow through a couple of stop signs, which is no big deal because few cars come through this neighborhood anyway. “Did Vivi wake you up?” I ask, to distract them. “I thought bedtime was a long time ago.”

A door slamming somewhere in the house sounds like a gunshot.

“I’m in jammies,” says Andrew helpfully as the light turns green.

I hit the gas. “Yeah? The rocket-ship ones, or the Hello Kitty ones?”

“Hello Kitty!” says Andrew. “She makes me happy.”

“That’s great, bud.”

“I’m in jammies too!” says Amy, not to be outdone. “I like Hello Kitty too! My jammies aren’t as faded as Drew’s.” I can picture her glaring at Andrew.

“Yes they are!”

“No they aren’t!”

“I am _not_ wearing Hello Kitty pajamas,” says Peter superciliously.

“Yeah!” says Amy. “He’s all gross and naked! Stop touching me, Peter! I don’t want to feel your skin!”

I stomp on the brakes as a car peels out of an uncontrolled intersection, swearing.

“No bad words,” chirps Andrew while Peter complains that Amy won’t stop touching his nipples.

“You didn’t hear that,” I tell him.

There’s a horrific crash in the other room, and I wonder if the Christmas tree has been downed _again_.

Andrew whimpers.

I wheel into the driveway. The lights are on in nearly every room and the screaming’s loud; I can hear it double, now, through the phone and through the walls of the house; through my _car_.

“I’m outside guys, okay? I’m gonna hang up now, I’ll see you in a sec.”

“’kay. Love you!”

“Love you too.” I kill the engine and unbuckle; open the door and nearly brain myself on the roof when I try to straighten up before I’m fully out.

They hang up first, and then I’m banging on the front door before I remember I have keys; then I’m fumbling them with cold hands, trying to find the right one in the dim garage floodlights. I’ve just unlocked the dirty white door when it swings open before I have a chance to lay my hand on the handle. Mom’s in the doorway.

“Couldn’t bother to stop it, could you?” I ask, brushing past her and kicking off my shoes, running through the living room—the tree’s still up, thank _god_ , I’ll kill someone if it gets ruined again this year—and then the hallway. Dad’s all the way at the end of it, in Viv’s doorway; though I’d heard it slam, her door hangs on loose hinges, like Dad’s kicked it open or something.

It takes me four steps ’til I’m there, insinuating myself in the doorway between Viv and Dad. “Cut it out!”

Dad cuts off in the middle of his rant, but he’s no less furious. “What are you doing here? Get out!”

“I won’t. You don’t think you’ve yelled enough already? You have other children, but you’re not thinking of them at all, are you? What are you planning to do, scream until the neighbors hear you and call the cops? Back off, can’t you see she’s had enough already?”

Dad’s practically foaming at the mouth, going off on some tangent about curfew and boys and all that crap; he gets in my face like a charging bull but I grit my teeth, ignoring the way part of me just wants to take a step back, because I can’t do that if I’m going to win this fight. I’m trying to think, as hard as I can, that Viv should just get out of sight or something, because the sight of her is just making Dad more rabid.

I don’t know if she gets or not—I’m too busy staring Dad down—but after a couple more minutes, he cusses loudly, angrily, and filthily in Mandarin and then stomps off down the hall to go seethe somewhere else. When he’s gone, I reach behind for the edge of Viv’s door. The hinges work, but the wood around the knob is splintered and cracked. Regardless, I swing the door closed as much as it’ll go.

Behind me, Viv sniffs loudly, clearly trying to get ahold of herself. She manages to get out, “I-I locked it, becau-cause I didn’t want him to hurt me—” and then she’s against my chest, sobbing, and I lean back against the wall, wrapping my arms around her and resting my chin on her head as she shakes, staring at the window right across from me, where the blinds are still open. If Mom was in here, she’d be nagging us to close the curtains so neighbors didn’t see in; I’d shoot right back that they’ve probably heard all they need to hear.

“Hey, it’s okay, Viv, ’kay? He won’t hurt you.”

I let her cry it out, and when Dad comes back five minutes later—predictably—I shove behind me and get in his face again, cussing him out until he spits curses at me and leaves—I would yell, but I don’t want to traumatize the other kids more; in my head, I’m sorry for not getting to them first, but they’ve got each other for now, and Viv’s here facing Dad’s wrath alone.

Viv’s back, then; she wipes her snot on my jacket, which normally I would be mad about, but I figure she’s having a strenuous day, so I allow it to pass. Just this once.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath in. “You-you-you don’t have to—” but then she trails off into some hiccups while I rub her back, her light switch digging into my shoulder blades.

“It’s cool, dude.”

She sniffs and lays her cheek against my chest, looking unseeingly at her bureau atop which she keeps all her chess championship trophies and LEGO Architecture models.

There’s silence, for a little while, broken only by her sniffs and Dad’s furious clanging in the kitchen; Mom’s probably fled to her room or something, determined not to get in the way.

Then: “Bry?”

The door creaks a little and I look down to see Amy’s head, her eyes wide and shiny in the light.

“Hey, mallowbear.” I reach a hand down to ruffle her hair, she tolerates it indignantly for a few seconds before shying away, watching an unseeing Viv warily. “You good?”

“Can we go to your place?” Amy asks quietly. “I don’t wanna stay here. Dad’s gonna be mad all night.”

Viv sniffs again.

Amy’s right, of course: she always is. She’s too smart for her age. Dad’ll come back in another fifteen minutes and go on another rant, and then half an hour after that he’ll come back again and go on another rant; this’ll go until he decides to throw himself in bed, whenever that might be, and he’ll wake up just as mad tomorrow and be yelling at Viv all throughout the next day, and as much as this argument is probably equally as much her fault (if she had started it by throwing the first plate), she doesn’t deserve to get yelled at all day. No one does.

“Sure. Go grab Mr. Fish and Hello Kitty anything else you need, okay?”

“Okay!” Amy sounds very cheered at the prospect of getting the fuck out of this house and honestly, I can’t say I blame her. I don’t know if she’s going to be fetching Peter too—Andrew is already a given, in this situation, they always go everywhere together—but it doesn’t matter: all of them have toothbrushes and clothes over at my place, things that had slowly migrated there after one-too-many nights staying over.

I put my chin back on Viv’s head. “You coming over, too?”

Her chest trembles as she takes a breath in. “Can I?”

“You know you can.”

She nods sharply, her face hidden, then takes an abrupt step back and wipes viciously at her swollen eyes. “I’ll just… get things. Pack things.” I let go and take a step toward the door when she says, “Can you stay? Like—like, just in case?” The words are almost torn out of her, and I know how much it must hurt her pride to say them, but she must care more about not having to face Dad than the shreds of her honor that are left.

“Alright.” I nudge the door mostly closed and stick my leg in front of it.

Sniffing some more, Viv grabs her backpack off the floor and starts stuffing things in at random: some clothes from the floor, some pajamas and underwear that are hanging half-heartedly out of her dresser.

The door nudges against my leg, not hard enough to be Dad busting in here, and I crack it open. Peter’s hovering outside, in black boxers with pineapples on them.

“Are we going to your place?” he whispers.

“Not looking like that you aren’t,” I say. “Put some clothes on, and then maybe I’ll think about letting you in my car.”

He grins, a little lopsided, and then lopes off down the hall to his room. A second later, Amy and Andrew are at the door again, their Transformers backpacks loaded full of plush toys—Andrew’s clutching Hello Kitty tight to his chest. “We’re ready!”

Viv drops her backpack on her bed, yanking hard at the zippers, which strain to close over her school stuff _and_ her clothes, but I don’t comment.

Somewhere else, I hear Dad pound down the stairs.

“Hustle up, Viv, unless you wanna be jumping out the window.”

She grunts and gives up on the zippers, slinging the backpack on; I lunge forward to catch a purple bra before it falls out and stuff it back in there.

“Alright, let’s go.” I shove them all ahead of me in the hall, feeling a bit like we’re sneaking out, and a second later I hear Peter behind us, hustling, zipping up a hoodie over his bare chest.

“Shh!” Amy hushes him, almost comically loud as I open the storm door to let them out. A pair of eyes shine at me from the middle of the Christmas tree and I almost jump before squinting and realizing it must be one of the cats. I’d chase her out of there with a spray bottle, but I’m on a tight schedule right now.

Viv’s just down the steps and I’m closing the door when Dad appears. “Where are you going?” he demands, then sees the kids scattered down the driveway and turns furious. “What the hell are they doing with you?”

I block the doorway; pop the trunk and unlock the doors to my car with my fob. To them: “Get in.” To him: “They’re coming over to my place.”

“No she’s not,” Dad spits, pointing at Viv. “Little fucker, get back in here—”

“You keep behaving like that, and I’m starting to wonder why you even had kids at all,” I hiss. “If you’re going to get riled up over something stupid, then—” I cut myself off before I can say _You might as well give them up for adoption_ , because they’re right there behind me and I can’t tack on _I’d adopt them_ without sounding lame to Dad.

“You don’t talk to me about my life!”

“You can bet I’m sure as hell going to talk to you about your life when it involved the lives of four other people who aren’t your goddamn punching bags. Let go of the door, and we’ll come back for Christmas if you’ve calmed down by then. Enjoy your two nights and one day of freedom.”

Dad snarls but I take advantage of his loosened grip to slam the door shut in his face and jog down the stairs. The twins are already in the car, Viv and Peter fighting for shotgun, and Viv’s halfway through winning when I point at her. “In the back, you.”

She looks at me, mouth open. “What?”

“Front’s for people who didn’t throw plates at Dad.”

“Siiick,” Peter snickers, elbowing Viv aside as she scowls, swinging himself into the front seat. Behind me, I heard Dad yank open the front door and yell some choice words in Mandarin after us, but I figure since the neighbors are mostly white, they won’t understand the blasphemy he’s spewing. I don’t understand why he’s so mad: he always gets riled up during the holidays, especially when our grandparents come over from China and there’s eight people trying to cram into one house; he should be glad that he’s getting a little peace and quiet.

“Look, it’s snowing!” Amy says as I turn on the car; Peter’s fingers are immediately all over the radio, trying to find a good station. “Can we have cookies when we get home? Milk and cookies, like Santa?”

“Only if you promise to be in bed by midnight. Buckle up, you guys.”

“I want sugar cookies! And can we watch _Scamper_?” Andrew asks hopefully, his arms wrapped tightly around Hello Kitty while Viv leans over Amy to put his buckle on him.

Peter settles on a Christmas station currently blaring _I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas_ as I pull out of my parents’ driveway, flakes already dusting the ground and starting to gather on my windshield.

“I want chocolate chip!”

I can’t help the grin that slides onto my face. “Sure, dudes. Chillax, I’ve got both in the freezer.”

I don’t say, _And I’d do anything for you_.


	7. Christmas Eve, T minus one day // S.J.

“Excuse me.”

I jump. “Sorry! Sorry.”

The stranger passes me without even a second look. He’s tall, got short-short hair. His jacket _barely_ fits his broad shoulders and his jeans cling to his legs so tightly I can see _everything_ , including unmentionable things, and his shirt is a shade of red so bright that I nearly go blind from looking at him. He’s not slouching or anything: just walking normally. You know, like a normal person. Meanwhile, I’m over here hunching over to make myself smaller and looking boring as hell.

“Come on, S.J.,” says Rachel, tugging my hand out of my pocket and intertwining our fingers.

“I don’t even know how you know where we are,” I mutter, following through her through the crowds of death at the Mall of America.

Rachel laughs, like I’ve said something extraordinarily witty. “I come here all the time with my friends. It’s not that hard to remember where everything is once you remember how everything is laid out. See, look!” Rachel points out. “Barnes and Noble is right there.”

We’re puked out into a large pavilion area: a carved-out column of pure space in the middle of _somewhere_ : floors stacked far above our heads and, straight ahead, there’s a couple of enormous silver Christmas trees that are trying to touch the ceiling; a stage is in front of a blinking giant screen, some speakers and some signs dotted nearby. The metal benches in front are dotted with people even though nobody’s performing; people are flitting in and out of stores. A Starbucks rears into my vision if I turn my head just a little bit.

Opposite the giant stage-tree-screen setup thingy is the bookstore that’s got Rachel bouncing on her toes like a little girl, and I let myself get dragged in front of a million people _at least_ as we pass in front of the stage.

“Sunny, you have to wait for me!”

Behind me, my mom is waddling as fast as she can, and she definitely gets more looks than I do; I’m sure my cheeks turn scarlet with hot second-hand embarrassment.

Rachel glances behind us and, obediently, slows down for my mom to catch up. She does this even though my mom’s been nothing but dismissive of her since they officially met this morning: ignoring Rachel, speaking over Rachel, generally acting like Rachel doesn’t exist, and I hate it, it makes me want to puke, but Rachel whispers that it’s fine, it’s just a couple hours, and she’s dealt with a lot of worse people before.

I’ve been apologizing every ten minutes anyway.

“Sunny!” Mum slaps me on the shoulder as she catches up to us right inside the bookstore. “Where are your manners? I thought I taught you better than this.”

“Sorry, Mum,” I mumble.

I think Rachel says something to her, but my ears are filled with a sudden, high-pitched whine, so I don’t hear whatever it is. When the noise finally fades, I hear: “…what do you read?”

She gets ignored, of course.

“Mum. Rachel asked a question.”

Mum titters. “I’ll just stick with you.”

“We—”

“That’s okay,” Rachel says. “What section do you want to go to first, S.J.?”

“Er, sci-fi?”

“Ugh, I _love_ sci-fi,” says Rachel, ever-enthusiastic, taking the lead and letting go of my hand to loop her arm around mine like we’re two dapper folks from the olden days. Mum trails behind us. I feel her gaze on the back of my neck like a laser turning me to lead: it’s like my shoulders are getting heavier and heavier with guilt—I’m not treating her well enough, I shouldn’t be flaunting _this_ so much in front of her because she’s divorced and doesn’t have anyone, I should be paying more attention to her—and collapsing down and in.

“…what books do you read?” Rachel’s asking now.

I assume she’s still talking about sci-fi. “I like Orson Scott Card. And, um, Douglas Adams.”

“Ooo, me too. _Ender’s Shadow_ is my favourite, have you read it?”

“Yeah—”

“Also, on a slightly unrelated note, have you read _Dune_? I haven’t, but everyone keeps telling me I should; I looked it up on Wikipedia and _skimmed_ the synopsis—don’t tell me I’m a bad person, _I know I am_ —and it low-key sounds like a sci-fi _Game of Thrones_.”

“I’ve read it.”

Mum’s silent. Why’s she silent? Is she okay? I twist around to see if she’s still there and, yep, she is.

“ _Is_ it like sci-fi _Game of Thrones_?”

“A… little? I haven’t read _Ga_ —”

“You’ve never read _Game of Thrones_?” Rachel gasps. “ _Oh_ my god. Well, that’s okay, you’re not missing much with the books, I guess. Most of it’s a ton of death: it’s like, you get attached to a character, and twenty chapters later, they’re dead.…”

Does Mum think I’m letting Rachel talk too much? Should I be talking more? I know everything needs to seem perfect with me and Rachel, otherwise Mum’s going to ask so many questions when we get a moment alone, like why I’m letting Rachel walk all over me; why I can’t get a hold on myself; why I’m not being a ‘proper man.’

Rachel’s clearly having fun, though, going on about _Game of Thrones_ ; I don’t want to dampen her good mood.

She’s still talking when she steers me into an aisle decorated by book spines.

Mum hovers at the entrance of the aisle, clearly not interested but also not willing to leave me and Rachel alone, like she’s worried that we’re two high schoolers that’ll start snogging the second she turns her back.

“Ooh, look at _this_ ,” Rachel says, letting go of my arm to pluck a book off the shelf. “Okay, I’m not shallow, I promise, but I like this cover. Here.” She flips the book and reading off the back. I waffle around next to her, reading over her shoulder, self-conscious and glancing at Mum every now and then. Then it occurs to me that I’m hovering, a side effect of Mum always yanking me close when I’d been a kid so I wouldn’t bother anyone, though Rachel isn’t Mum and most people don’t like it when others—especially men—breathe down their necks, so I take a sharp step back and nearly collide with some dude with glasses as he walks down the aisle.

He turns to give me a funny look.

“Sorry.”

We spend twenty minutes in that aisle, and I don’t look at a single book.

Then Rachel is pulling me to the graphic novels section, not giving me time to tell her that Mum doesn’t approve of comics and doesn’t want me reading them. She goes straight for a section in a manner that suggests she’s been here a lot and immediately crouches down, shuffling through books like she’s searching for gold.

Mum’s at the end of the aisle again, looking more irritated: her arms are crossed and she’s glaring now, not even trying to hide her hostility. She hasn’t spoken a word since we got here.

Rachel reaches up and tugs my arm. “S.J.! Here, look at this. Have you read this?” She hands me a thin paperback, a lady with wings and a man with horns on the front.

 _Saga_.

“Um, no—”

“ _S.J._! Ugh, you _need_ to—it’s like, the best book I’ve ever read before in my life. Here, okay, hang onto that, okay? I’ll buy it for you—wait, no, I have a copy at home you can borrow… ugh, no I’ll just buy it, and then you can take it back to New York with you, yeah? And then if you like it, you can check out the rest, of course…”

“I can pay for it,” I say, because I don’t want her to think that she has to buy me things. “Or I can just… borrow yours—”

“Actually…” Rachel pauses. Looks at the book, then tilts her head up to look at me, squinting a little bit.

I look at Mum. She’s leaning against a bookshelf now, staring off into the distance.

“Here, let me have that.” Rachel takes the book from my hands and puts it back on the shelf. “You can borrow, and then if you really like it…” she trails off and her eyes glint mischievously; I don’t see because I’m looking at Mum again, hoping she’s not hearing this conversation, because I don’t want her to come barreling up and start spouting how comic books are blasphemous.

Mum turns around and starts coming down the aisle.

“Aw, man, they don’t have the newest one,” Rachel mutters.

I almost take a step back, then realize I can’t just leave Rachel here alone with Mum, so I plant my feet and kind of just stand there, awkwardly, over Rachel, who’s squatting and pulling out another book, flipping through it like she needs to decide whether or not she likes the drawing style before she actually starts reading the story.

“How much longer are we going to be here?” Mum snipes. “I need to go to Sephora.”

“You never go to Sephora,” I say before I can stop myself. “I thought you get your makeup from Dollar Tree.”

Mum glares at me like I’ve just killed a baby in front of her. “Don’t argue with me in public, Sunny,” she snaps. “I’m not asking you why you’re in a bookstore, when you’ve never stepped foot in one in your life.”

I flinch. “That’s not true—”

But then I freeze.

I have to freeze.

Because—

Because I see the _last_ person I’d ever want to see right now, while I’m in a Barnes and Noble with my mother and also my girlfriend, and I swear that all the blood in my veins has suddenly been replaced with pure caffeine: my heart is pounding so fast I feel faint.

Bryce Qiao is in the bookstore.

_Why is Bryce here?_

He’s walking shoulder-to-shoulder next to a woman so tiny she makes him look like a giant—I vaguely register her as his mother: she just barely looks familiar, but the realization comes more from the fact that their faces are very similar—and there’s a bunch of kids circling them like tiny moons: two littluns and two teenagers.

Why?

Why, why, why?

This wasn’t—this isn’t supposed to happen, I wasn’t supposed to see Bryce at all, he was supposed to stay away and be a very unattainable fantasy and not be here right now and _coming this way_ , looking like—like—Like _that_ , untouchable: pale and flawless, his undercut styled perfectly, because undercuts are fashion right now and he’s fashion. He’s wearing light gray slacks with thin white plaid lines— _who wears that?_ —and an enormous black knit turtleneck that’s tucked into his pants and rolled up at his wrists—and is at least several sizes too large because the neck part is so loose it flumps over like a cowl to reveal a swath of skin and jutting collarbone—and there’s a silver chain hanging off his belt loop that goes to his pocket and glints in the light, making him look just a little bit more, um, _glam_? He looks like an ice sculpture—or maybe a painting; a classic painting. He’s got a faint smile across his face, like the Mona Lisa, as he watches the two little kids play tag around him and his eyes are crinkling in a way that is definitely a lot more than just a little nice. I nearly jump straight out of my clothes as he swipes the area with a glance—thank _God_ there’s no recognition anywhere to be found in his expression—and of _course_ he’s one of those people who makes you feel super special—like the only person that matters—when he looks at you, even when he’s not even actively looking at you on purpose at all, and I think I’m about to fall over.

My mother must see something on my face because she turns around; I hear her gasp, like she’s a little girl who’s just seen her best friend across the playground after a long summer apart.

Oh, no, not good, not good at all, Bryce cannot come here, Bryce cannot come here and see me, because I will die. I don’t look nice at all and I’m with _Mum_ , and I’m disgusted with myself for thinking it, but part of me is ashamed of her, and I immediately know I’m a terrible son, nobody else must think of their mothers like that.

None of it matters, though, because Mum is reaching over Rachel and grabbing my arm in an iron grip, practically jumping up and down and waving, attracting some stares, and I’m going to burn up with keen embarrassment. When Mum yanks me forward, I nearly trip over Rachel, who’s not paying attention because she’s absorbed in a book, and she yelps and goes sprawling.

“My Lord, Sunny, look, it’s Mrs Chow! We _need_ to go say hello!”

Oh, God, I’m going to puke. “Mum—no—I have to… I have to use the restroom—”

By some miracle that is more enormous than Jesus being reborn, the Qiaos haven’t seen us yet.

“ _Sunny_ —”

“Um,” says Rachel.

“No, I really do—”

“Oh, _please_ ,” says Mum grip getting tighter, “you can wait a couple minutes, we _have_ to go say hi—”

“I can’t!” I wrench my arm out of her grasp painfully and run away: because that’s what it is, I run away like a coward, hiding behind shelves; as I leave, I can hear Mum exclaiming, too loud, and then a soft, accented voice.

Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy bloody fucking shit, I so cannot be here right now.

I find the restroom by the grace of ceiling signs and lock myself in the family room with shaking hands and then just kind of collapse and fizzle out against the door, trying to breathe and get my pulse back to some normal level. What’s a normal level? I can feel my heart pounding in my chest like I’ve never felt it before: it doesn’t feel like it’s beating, it feels like it’s _leaping_ , trapped, and I can feel the tattoo of its rhythm against my ribcage. Oh, God, am I sick?

I don’t know how long I stay there. Someone jiggles the doorknob, then knocks, and I can’t even bring myself to say something, because what am I supposed to say? _Occupied, I’m having a panic attack. Sorry!_

I just shake my head and press my knuckles to my teeth until I taste sharp blood; until I can breathe normally.

The toilet watches me from across the room.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper at it. “You’re a toilet. You don’t get to judge me for my choices.”

Another person jiggles the knob of the bathroom and I flinch.

Oh, god, what am I doing in here? There’s probably, like, actual people who need to use the bathroom; people with kids who don’t just want to walk into the public bathrooms; people with babies who need changing.

I shove myself to my feet and ignore the way I wobble at first, because if ignore it, it’s like it never happened. I wash my hands: twenty seconds under scalding water.

There’s a soft knock.

“Just a minute!”

I turn my hands red scrubbing them dry and use the paper towel to open the door: right there, outside, is Rachel, confusion warring with worry on her face.

 _Rachel_.

Fuck, I’d forgotten about Rachel; I feel like the worst boyfriend ever to boyfriend, because who the hell forgets about their significant other and ditches them the second they get a whiff of a problem? Douchebags like Dad, that’s who, and I _won’t_ be like Dad.

“Um, hi,” I say, sure she’s here to break up with me, and I’m kind of a little bit glad I’m still in the restroom, so that when she does, I can just close and lock the door again so nobody disturbs me while I cry.

“Hey,” she says. I tense up and just kind of wait her to get it over with. “You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“You looked pretty harried back there,” she points out. “Someone you didn’t want to run into?”

I can’t look at her when I say, “Um, no. Not really.” Is she going to break up with me?

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I think your mom might still be a little busy talking to them.”

I cringe. Poor Mrs Qiao, but no offense, I don’t care enough to attempt to rescue her.

Rachel opens her mouth to say something else but I don’t notice this until I’ve already blurted out: “We could, er, ditch her? Go to—Sorry. Pardon?”

“No, no, go ahead.”

I flush. Look away and throw the paper towels into the bin—I don’t miss, thank goodness, not in front of Rachel. “If she’s busy, we don’t need to interrupt, right? We could go to Starbucks or something? Grab a cuppa?”

She smiles.

Her eyes don’t crinkle up like Bryce’s do.

“That’s a great idea.”

I smile back, just a little hesitant because I’m still not sure if this is going to end in tears, but she takes my hand and I feel some of the tension bleed away. I let her lead: she knows the store better than I do, so she’ll know how to avoid Mum.

Indeed, we get out of the store without even seeing my mom, or the Qiaos, and something twists in my chest, but I don’t know why. Outside the bookstore, the stage is now occupied: some high school choir sings about the magic of Christmas. We skirt the crowd. Her hand bumps mine, and I draw away, not wanting to be annoying.

Why does it matter that her eyes don’t crinkle up like Bryce’s?

 _It doesn’t_ , I tell myself. _It doesn’t at all._

Rachel’s not Bryce, which is fine—it’s great! Rachel is Rachel and definitely good enough for me. And tomorrow I’ll meet her parents and everything will be fine. I have the rest of my vacation to spend with her, and next time I’ll leave my mom at home, and if Rachel and I have trouble, we can figure it out day-by-day.

Everything’s going to be fine.


	8. Christmas Day, The first day of Christmas // Bryce

“Alright, bye Lucky!”

“Byeeee!”

“Bye-bye!”

“See you guys.” Lucky looks more tired than when I’d seen him last, lines under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping, but he grins nonetheless. His face freezes as he hangs up—and then his video disappears.

“Oof,” says Jackie, slouching down further in chair; in the background, one of his roommate’s FC Barcelona posters becomes visible. “Is it just me, or did he look hella hungover?”

“I didn’t see anything.” Colleen frowns, then adjusts her screen a little bit.

“You’re just jealous that he’s handsomer than you,” says Ella, and he sputters.

I shoot a text to Michael, ignoring my growling stomach: _Call’s on. You joining?_

Barely a minute later: “Oo-hoo, here’s our Mikey-boy!” Jackie croons obnoxiously as Michael logs on. Michael’s at his office table—he always is, when he joins our calls—looking very stiff in his crisp white button-down.

“Don’t call me that,” he says.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Grinch,” says Ella, kicked back on her couch, grinning like the devil.

“Christmas was yesterday,” says Michael.

“Yeah, and it was for me, too, but you don’t see _me_ spoiling the mood like a little bitch.”

“Don’t be rude, Michael,” admonishes Jason. “Say hi.”

“Hi.”

“Now say Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Jesus Christ, my desire to just hang up is only growing by the second.” Jackie rolls his eyes.

“It’s Christmas,” says Queenie. “Can we try not to fight? Just a little bit? For me, if that makes you feel better.”

“I’m not the one who started it,” points out Michael.

“Yes, yes,” I say, a little snappy with hunger. “You all love each other but feel the need to cover it in snark. We all know. Now: Merry Christmas, bitches! Let’s sing some carols up in here or some shit.”

“Did you sing carols with Lucky?”

I lean forward and squint at Michael’s little video rectangle on my dad’s computer screen, trying to decipher his expression.

“Nice forehead, Bryce,” says Jackie.

“Are you trying to tell me that you want my exfoliating routine? I can send it to you.” I can’t tell what Michael’s thinking. He’s always had a good poker face, damn him. “My contacts are shit and Skype is shit, but I can still see every single one of your pimples.”

“The great thing about being straight,” says Jackie, “is that most girls don’t care.”

“You’re hanging out with the wrong girls,” I say. “They don’t have high enough standards. Must be why they always end up with you instead of someone…” I give him an up-and-down, “…better.”

“You wound me.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Queenie,” Jackie whines. “Bryce is bullying me.”

Queenie, who’d been on mute while she talked with her roommate, turns back to the screen. “What?”

“Never mind,” sulks Jackie. “The moment’s over.”

“I can’t believe I joined the call to listen to this,” says Michael.

“Aww, says the man who’s secretly pining for when we’re all together again.”

“When’s _that_ going to happen?” Colleen snorts. “As Hamilton said, my friends are all sca—”

“Please, no more fucking _Hamilton_ references,” I say. “If I hear another one, I’m going to shoot myself.”

“Poor baby,” she says, fake-sympathetic. “Having to be all alone with Lucky all the time. It must be so, _so_ hard.”

I don’t tell her that it is, indeed, starting to get hard (in more ways than one), because I am a man with no options, and Lucky is _right there_ , and if nothing happens soon, I’m going to break the bro-code and end up fucking my best friend’s ex. Not, like, permanently. Just once. To scratch the itch. I wouldn’t make good boyfriend material for him—not that I’m even _looking_ for a boyfriend—because as far as I can tell, Michael and Lucky were into weird kinky shit while they were together, and the extent to which _I_ am kinky is that I like being bitten and I _sometimes_ like getting choked, so obviously I wouldn’t exactly be able to fill that void for Lucky.

“How is Lucky?” Michael asks. Stiffly. He’s always stiff nowadays.

Everyone goes a quiet and still.

“Good,” I say.

He nods sharply.

More silence.

Wow, this is awkward.

“Well,” says Jason eventually. “Michael, how’s your Christmas going? Or, how did it go?”

“It was fine,” says Michael.

More silence.

“Any details?” prompts Queenie. “Anything at all?”

“I didn’t do anything special.”

Everyone else on the call goes _Aww_ sympathetically.

“Why not?” Colleen asks.

“I didn’t want to,” says Michael flatly. He looks down at his—watch? Phone? “I have work in half an hour.”

Everyone stares at him.

“Really?” says Jackie, sounding weird. “The day after Christmas?”

Michael shrugs.

He’s not looking at any of us, but rather off to the side somewhere. Then down.

A moment later someone else starts talking and my phone buzzes with a text: _Is he happy?_

I text back: _Wdym?_

I don’t get an answer to that.

“…no, but it _is_ getting late for me,” Queenie says. “But that just means I’ve got the Christmas tree plugged in.” She smiles slyly, and a second later she’s muted, her shining eyes looking over her webcam. She pulls out her earbuds and a second later, her mouth moves.

“Hi, yes, hello,” says Jackie to the rest of us. “Attention. I would like to start a pot. Eighty dollars says Queenie’s sleeping with her roommate.”

“You _have_ eighty dollars?” says Ella.

“Would anyone else like to join?” asks Jackie. “Obviously, someone can’t hold onto the money, so this’ll just have to be operated on an honor code where people willingly cough up when they are, inevitably, wrong.”

“I’ll put in a hundred,” says Ella.

“I can’t bet on such a personal matter; I can’t believe you guys are doing this,” says Jason as Colleen offers thirty.

“What can I say, I’m a businessman,” says Jackie, who is not studying business and has never even looked at business with anything less than vague disgust on his face. “Michael? Bryce?”

“I’ll pass,” I say, because I’ve blown all my spending money on Christmas presents. I don’t think Michael’s even paying attention to the call anymore: he’s staring at something he’s holding under the table, a lock of dark hair springing free from its place behind his ear and brushing his cheek. He looks younger, with long hair: I remember he told me, years ago, that Lucky had said that he liked his hair long. At the time, I didn’t think that meant Michael would stop cutting it. I didn’t know that Michael would keep it even after their breakup. Does he like torturing himself? I’ve told him before (as gently as possible) to just cut it and get over it; get over the heartbreak. That conversation hadn’t ended well.

“Michael? Hello?”

Michael’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Betting?”

“No.”

“Killjoy,” mutters Jackie. “Okay, whatever. Somebody text Lucky about this. See if he’s in.”

Queenie puts her earbuds back in before anyone can say anything else, and Jackie shuts up even though she _still_ isn’t paying attention.

“I have to go soon,” says Michael.

“Cheers, Mikey, thanks for logging on for _five_ minutes.”

“Jackie, shut the fuck up or I will personally fly to Miami just to punch you in the balls.” Michael’s so very close to sounding normal with that but his face, completely still and emotionless like he’s a wax figure, ruins it.

“Ooo, I’m so _scared_ ,” singsongs Jackie. “Promise to punch me _really hard_ , Mikey? Are you into CBT?”

Michael gives him a flat look, and then hangs up without even saying goodbye.

“Wow, rude,” he says with a frown.

“ _Jackie_ ,” says Colleen, exasperated.

“What? I meant cognitive behavioral therapy!”

“ _CHI FAN_!” my dad yells from the kitchen, where pots and pans and plates have been rattling for the past several hours.

I hear a massive _bang_ from upstairs as Peter hauls ass out of his room: nobody’s been allowed to put any food in their mouth since nine this morning to prep for Dad’s pride and joy of Christmas Day: the huge-ass fucking feast we’re expected to eat all of.

“Dear lord,” says Jackie. “You’re eating at _four thirty_ in the afternoon? And you’re not even ashamed about it?”

“Listen, buddy. I’ve eaten nothing all day. I would eat _you_ at this point, four thirty in the afternoon or not.”

“I was wondering why you were asshole-y, earlier,” Jackie says smugly. “I forgot that you don’t do _hungry_ well.”

“Who does?”

Colleen snickers.

“Where’s that lady person you said was coming?” Ella asks.

“In the living room,” I say, any good mood I’d had evaporating like alcohol. “Don’t remind me.”

“Uff, that bad?” Jason asks.

“Listen,” I say. “I have so many complaints about her. I cannot say _any_ of them aloud without sounding horribly classist or sexist. Also, she is _white_. I can say _that_ because people of color can’t be racist.”

“Preach,” says Colleen.

Jackie sniggers. “ _You_ ’re white.”

“Shut up, Jackie. Your ego is clearly getting out of hand. It must be the women. They’re getting to you. You need to be rejected a couple of times so you come back down to the same humble level as the rest of us.”

“ _Humble_ ,” says Queenie. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Oh, look who’s decided to join us again!” says Jackie, batting his eyes. “Queenie the queen, Queen of lesbians.”

“You have one more strike, Jackie,” says Queenie, “before I actually consider booting you from this call.”

“Oop. Pardon.” He shoots her a charming grin.

“Where’s Michael?”

“He left,” says Ella. “Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Jackie was being a bitch,” I tell Queenie, so she can get some context.

Queenie gives the camera a flat look, which I presume is for Jackie. It’s rather impressive, I must say.

“Remind us again real quick why you have strangers over for Christmas?” Colleen asks me.

I sigh. “Mom found my elementary school yearbook and recognized the last name of one of my old friends as the last name of some rando who’d accidentally shown up at one of her PTA meetings a couple months ago and decided she needed a new pet project, so now she goes over to this woman’s place every week because she thinks this lady is special needs or something. I try not to listen too hard when both of them are talking.”

“Wow,” says Ella after a pause. “Sounds like… a lot.”

“Okay,” I say. “One more thing: I’m going to sound bitchy for this, but I need to get it out there. Her coat? Is hideous. A dozen chickens died to make that coat. A dozen chickens and one—ONE—cow. And the worst part is like—the feathery bits aren’t consistent! There’re shoulder patches, and this weird bit down the back! And—”

“I love how there’s no situation where Bryce _isn’t_ bitching about clothes,” interjects Jackie.

I glare at him. “Listen. I can control myself normally. I cannot control myself when monstrosities are involved. I wouldn’t even wish that coat on Hitler.”

“Let’s stay away from the Holocaust jokes, because we are not Jewish,” says Queenie.

“Fine,” I say. “Also, it goes beyond clothes—”

“BRYCE!” hollers my dad. “ _CHI FAN_!”

“Jesus Christ.” I hurry up, scooting back and forth in Dad’s wheelie chair. “And she—”

“Who’s the friend?” asks Jason, and I stumble.

“What?”

“Who was the friend?”

I grimace. “You don’t know him. He was, like, from my elementary school years. Sunset Jesus?”

They blink.

Then: “That’s his _name_?”

“That’s horrible,” says Jackie, making a face of disgust. “I’m not normally one to feel second-hand embarrassment but that is actually a fucking _terrible_ name. Were his parents _hippies_?”

“Yeah, I know, I think he went by Sunny in school? I don’t know, I barely fuckin’ remember him, yet Mom keeps gushing about this lady, and it’s like, half the time I have no idea what she’s talking about and normally I would feel terrible about it—”

“No you wouldn’t,” says Ella.

“—no I wouldn’t. I barely even recognize his picture, I had, like, a million friends in elementary school. I can’t believe my parents expect me to remember shit from then, like that wasn’t a solid twenty years ago—”

“ _CAIHONG!_ ” I hear my Dad start to make his way down the basement stairs.

“Listen, I gotta go,” I say, getting up so fast from the chair it shoots back behind me and nearly crashes into the drywall.

“Is the dude there?” Jason asks, brow furrowed.

“No, his mom was all bitchy about him being at his girlfriend’s place for Chr—”

Dad busts open the door to his office (where I’ve staked myself out to avoid interruption) and I leap around, startled. He arches his eyebrows. “If you don’t come, there’s not going to be anything left to eat.”

I don’t call him out on this enormous lie (if what I’d seen when I hustled at top speed past the kitchen (so I wouldn’t be enlisted to help cook) was any indication, we’ve got enough food to feed at least a dozen people and still have leftovers). “Yah, yah, I’m coming.”

“Okay, see you, Bryce!”

“Bye guys.”

“Bye!”

“See you later! Don’t forget our next call is on New Year’s Eve!”

“Okay, not at night, though. I’ll be busy doing shots so I can forget how much of a lonely jerk I am.”

My dad, pretending he doesn’t hear this bit, turns around to go back upstairs. My eyes go to his butt (fuck you, Lucky, fuck you _so much_ ), but I don’t really see anything spectacular about it. It’s just a butt, loose-jean-clad.

“Okay, bye!”

“Byeee!”

“Have fun, don’t get too drunk!”

“By—”

I cut them off in the middle of all their farewells and log out of the computer, taking the stairs two-by-two after my dad.

“God, Bryce, you couldn’t hurry up?” complains Peter as soon as he spots me. “I’ve been sitting here for ages!” Everyone’s around the rectangular table already: Dad’s at the head and Mom to his left, _yeye_ and _nainai_ next to each other on his right, pointing at the food and talking to Peter, who is scooted _very_ close to them and _very_ far away from…

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!” says Brandi Fernby, the bane of my existence even though I’ve only known her for a grand total of nineteen minutes. She’s wearing a loose, neon paisley shirt that’s so large it goes down to her knees and polka-dot leggings that are… too tight. Way too tight. I cannot respect anyone who makes those kinds of choices.

Everyone turns to look at her weird (except my dad, who I aspire to be like one day because he so spectacularly does not give any shits about this woman).

Mom clears her throat. [Let’s make sure to be polite and respect our guest’s religion,] she says in Chinese.

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Bry!” Amy almost screams while Dad takes his seat; half the dishes already set out on the table, steaming—I assume the rest are on the stove so they don’t get cold. “I saved you a seat! Sit here!” She’s sprawled across two chairs next to Mom.

“No, I want him to sit next to me!” Andrew wails, who’s at the other end of the table opposite Dad, between Brandi and Viv.

“Calm down,” Mom tells them, “he’s here for the whole day, you can all have your turn when you’re unwrapping presents.”

“I want him to sit next to me _now_!”

“Hey, dude, chill out,” I say, trying to halt the imminent meltdown. “We—”

Viv swears and gets up so abruptly her chair screeches on the floor. “Just take my seat.”

“Thanks,” I mutter as I pass her, and I settle between the twins, both of whom immediately try to insinuate themselves in my lap. “Guys,” I say, “you have chairs for a reason. If you don’t sit in your chairs, your chair privileges are going to be revoked. No more chairs anymore ever again. You’ll have to stand for _every single meal_.”

They scramble back into their chairs.

Brandi smiles at me from right across the table. She has a thick streak of lipstick on her teeth. No wonder Viv was so eager to give up this seat, even if it meant sitting next to her _mother_ (horror of horrors).

“You’re such a wonderful brother,” she says.

I offer her a smile. It is the fakest smile I have ever given someone.

[Why is this lady here again?] Peter asks flatly.

Dad is spooning fish maw soup into bowls and passing them across the table.

[Manners, Peter!] Mom snaps. [She didn’t have anywhere else to go for Christmas.]

[Why is that _our_ problem?] he whines, but shuts up when Mom turns a death glare on him.

“Oh, thank you _so_ much,” Brandi gushes as Dad hands her a bowl. “What’s this?”

“It’s fish bladders!” Amy says, standing on her chair, trying to reach the next bowl Dad’s handing out. I take it for her and put it down on her placemat before she can grab it, overbalance, and spill soup across the entire table, because clean-up is an operation that would take at least fifteen minutes and I would starve to death.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Brandi.

“Fish bladders,” Andrew says dreamily, looking at Amy’s soup, where she’s already shoveling it in her mouth. Then he tilts his head up so his eyes can meet mine. “Bry, I want soup too.”

“Yeah, be patient, bud.” I ruffle his hair; steal the next soup bowl for him.

“I need a napkin,” says Peter.

“You _have_ a napkin,” says Viv. “Your elbow’s on it.”

He tries to kick her under the table, misses, and hits me.

“Ow! Fuck, dude—”

“Sorry,” he says guiltily.

“Language!” says Brandi. “On the Lord’s day!”

Dear fucking Christ, how long is she staying?

“Do you not want your soup?” Amy asks Brandi. “Can I have it?”

“Amy!” snaps Mom.

Dad hands me a bowl—fucking _finally_ —and I grab a spoon.

“You’re always yelling about not wasting,” says Amy. “Why can’t I ask that? If she’s not going to eat that, it shouldn’t go in the _trash_.”

At the head of the table, Dad fills his own bowl, settling back into his wooden chair.

“Don’t worry, I’m eating!” says Brandi, making intense eye contact with Amy as she slurps a spoonful. “Mm-mm, yummy! So tasty in my belly!”

I stare at her. Does she think she’s dealing with babies, here? I’m offended on behalf of Amy.

Amy narrows her eyes and doesn’t say anything more to Brandi. She leans over in her chair, whispering in my ear, “Bry?”

“What’s up?” I mumble, mouth half-full.

“I don’t like the weird lady.”

I lean back a little and whisper in her ear, very quietly. “Here’s a secret you can’t tell anybody: I don’t like her either, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now, so just eat fast and then we can open presents, okay?”

“Okay,” chirps Amy, greatly cheered by the aspect of presents, which is adorable, and starts inhaling her food so fast that I’m both horrified and impressed.

“Eh, slow down,” says _yeye_ , his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “You eat fast and get a stomachache.”

“I want to open presents,” Amy says, her mouth full. “I’ve been waiting all day!”

“The presents aren’t going anywhere,” says Dad. “Slow down.”

“Imagine being excited for Christmas still,” Viv mutters, her nose practically touching her bowl. She and Dad are still mad at each other, but at least they’ve progressed to the portion of their fight where they’re ignoring each other instead of screaming.

Peter snorts. Then edges a little farther from Brandi, who’s still eating comically slowly and making noises for what she thinks must be Amy’s benefit.

[Cai Fei,] says _nainai_ , who’s slowly getting shoved into _yeye_ ’s side, [you have a spot.]

“Do I, though?” Peter mumbles. “Do I really?”

Dad, between slurping bites of soup, shoots Peter a _look_ , and Peter grumbles but scoots a little bit away from _nainai_.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me!” laughs Brandi, who looks at the very large space cleared around her (Andrew’s moved his chair so close to my side he’s practically on the corner). “I’m not scary at all!”

“She has food stuck in her teeth,” hisses Andrew in my ear.

“I know, bud.”

“I don’t like her.”

“I know, bud.”

“Brandi, how was your evening yesterday?” my mom asks.

“Oh, it was _wonderful_ ,” gushes Brandi while my grandparents and Dad get into a discussion about whether there’s enough salt in the soup. “Sunny and I went back home and we had such a good night, we watched a movie and I made cinnamon twists—do you know cinnamon twists? I should show you!

“Anyway, I’m so sorry he couldn’t be here today, I tried to get him, really, but he’s off at some girl’s house…”

Mum nods sympathetically.

“Do you remember Sunny?” Brandi asks me eagerly.

“No,” I say. For the third time since I’ve known her, because she already asked me that twice at the bookstore yesterday and then again when she was on the doorstep at noon.

She pouts and tucks a frayed lock of dyed-blonde hair behind her ear. “That’s such a shame! You were such good friends in elementary school, you know, I think he used to go over to your place every day! I would tell him all the time that he was so lucky to have a friend like you to keep all the bullies away…”

I stop paying attention to her and go back to eating: she’s clearly reciting this more for herself than for me.

I feel a light kick on my leg and look up to see Peter giving me a look that says, _This woman is crazy_. I give him a look that says, _I know_.

“…all those girls just want to take advantage of him, I swear, just because he has a good job and makes good money! That girl Rachel he’s with doesn’t even care for him, she was dragging him around all day yesterday, trying to dump me, you know?”

“What’s she talking about?” Amy whispers.

“I don’t even know anymore, mallowbear.”

“…what’s your job?” Brandi asks me, turning to fix me with cloudy blue eyes.

Before I can shame my family and tell her I’m a model, Dad interjects: “He went to law school. Graduated _cum laude_ from the University of Minnesota Law School ahead of schedule.” His chest’s already puffing out. Christ, here we go again.

“Oh, _congratulations_ ,” Brandi coos. “That’s _wonderful_! You know, my Sunny is an actuary, he works in New York with all the important companies…”

“I want more soup!” demands Amy, holding out her bowl. “I’m still hungry!”

Peter looks up from pouring the last of the soup into his bowl.

“PETER!” Amy wails.

“Calm down,” says Dad, “there’s other food: lobster and duck and _char kway teow_...”

“I don’t want noodles, I want _soup_!”

“I want soup, too!” Andrew yells, not ever one to be outdone, and Viv winces.

“ _Peter_ , why did you eat all the soup?” Amy cries.

“…what a pity you aren’t a girl,” says Brandi, looking straight at me, her words somehow making their way above the chaos while I try to prevent Amy from launching herself across the table and biting Peter’s head off. “You would make such a good wife for him!”

I blink at her, Amy and Andrew still wailing; she’s still beaming like she’s said the most wonderful thing she could possibly say, blinking around the table like she’s waiting for someone to agree with her.

“What,” I say, “the fuck.”

Mom clears her throat. “Brandi—”

“Why would you say that?” Peter demands, glaring at Brandi. “That’s a weird-ass thing to say, don’t you think?”

Brandi is blinking, her smile slowly being replaced by a look of confusion. “I don’t…”

“Like, you just walk in here—”

“Chill, Peter.”

He looks at me like I’m insane.

“And,” I tell Brandi coldly, “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I have any desire to become a woman.”

Brandi’s not even squirming in her seat, and I have to wonder if this woman is actually human or if she’s a robot sent here to sabotage our Christmas. “It was a compliment,” she tries.

“No it wasn’t.”

“I had no idea of your… persuasion—”

“It’s a sexuality, not a deviancy,” I snap.

“The Bible—”

“The Bible is a work of _fiction_ —”

“Bryce!” Mom exclaims.

Brandi opens her mouth—because of course she’s also homophobic, that’s the cherry on top of the cake: Mom invited a homophobic stranger to our Christmas celebration. Fantastic. Shoot me.

The doorbell rings—thank Jesus fuck—and I shove my chair back before anyone can start spewing more crap.

“I’ll get it.”

“ _Bry_ ,” Amy wails, “I wanna come with you—”

“You sit down,” my mother snaps at the twins.

I stalk away from the table, pissed that barely anybody had even _said_ anything, but honestly, what did I expect? Nobody here _hates_ me for being gay, but it’s certainly not something that’s talked about, at least with my parents and grandparents around.

One of the cats trots out from under the Christmas tree and scrubs against my leg. I pause, some of the frustration melting away: it’s easier not to be pissed when I’m not around the people pissing me off. Behind me, Dad’s finally getting involved with the twins, trying to cajole them back into some semblance of civility.

I consider ramping up my gayness for the rest of the time Brandi’s here, just to watch her squirm. Ugh, but what would be the point? Mom and Dad would just yell at me later. Everything about this situation sucks.

I nudge the cat away from my feet and go for the door, weary now, wanting to go home already even though it’s the middle of the afternoon.

Mom’s pulled the blinds, so I can’t see who it is through the window, which is tragic, and I hope it’s not a serial killer. A blast of cold air hits me in the face as I yank the door open. Then: You know what, to hell with not acting gay.

“Well, hel- _lo_. I was kind of hoping for a cute guy to spruce up this Christmas, but I wasn’t expecting one to be delivered right to my doorstep.”

The dude on the doorstep—he’s all leg, there’s so much leg, he can’t be any taller than me, but all of it’s leg—takes a step back, an expression on his face that’s somewhere between horrified and stricken, and I’m not sure whether or not I should be a little offended, because I didn’t know I was _that_ bad-looking, geez.

His gaze darts away, not stopping on anything in particular even though a bunch of nearby yards (including ours) are sprinkled with a couple of inches of snow from a couple days ago and set up with holiday lights that are very enticing to look at. “I don’t—Sorry—I-I think I was invited?” His voice is rough, and he looks kind of frozen: like he walked over from the bus stop or something. I certainly don’t see a car that could be his.

“Who is it?” Peter yells.

I lean against the doorway, pulling the door shut a little bit more to minimize the cold air punching into the house and to block the view from the kitchen. “Who are you?”

“I’m, uh—I think my mum’s here?”

I stall, for a second, because that’s not a direct answer, but I’m not so stupid that I can’t put two and two together. “ _Sunny_?”

He cringes. Visibly. “It’s, um, S.J.? Now?”

“Sorry.” I blink. Sunny— _S.J._ —from sixth grade (who’d looked like any other kid in his yearbook photo) is hot now??? When did he get hot? His face is all beautiful angles—cheekbones and narrow chin—and his red-brown hair is windblown and tousled over pink-tipped ears. A faint accent touches the vowels of his words, making him seem just a tiny bit exotic, which is cute as hell.

“If my mum’s not here, that’s okay,” he says, taking another step back. “I’ll just—I can go—” He sniffs. His cheeks look shiny in the faint outdoors light. Shit, is he crying?

I take a step outside even though I’m in socks, pulling the door mostly-shut behind me, just making sure the latch doesn’t click so I don’t get locked out. “Hey, are you good?” I immediately feel stupid, because it’s pretty obvious he’s not doing so great, but I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say—I’m still reeling.

He makes this muffled, strangled noise, his hands already up to cover his mouth, his knuckles cracked and bleeding. He stumbles on ice; when I reach out to steady him so he doesn’t fall, he collapses into my arms like he can’t hold himself up anymore. I stagger for a second. He’s not wearing a proper coat and he’s freezing, shaking in my arms, like the weather has leached all the warmth from him, and I have to wonder how he got like this.

I rub my hands up his back. He’s so skinny, I swear I can feel each one of his ribs even though he’s got on a shirt and a smart blazer on. “Hey, dude, it’s going to be okay.”

“It—It’s not,” he says, barely audible what with the crying, “It’s not, she-she-she broke up with m-me, and I-I-I—”

The door opens behind us and I twist around; see Viv’s startled face.

“Oh!” she says. Hesitates. “Damn. Looks like you guys are busy. Uh, sorry.” She closes the door. Opens it right back up a moment later. Points and whispers: “Um, who’s that?”

“Ah, S.J.?” I hiss back. I get met by blankness. “ _Brandi’s kid_.”

“Oh.” Viv makes a face. “Good luck with _that_.” She disappears and pushes the door back to how I’d left it.

I go back to patting S.J.’s back kind of uselessly while he wipes his face on my sweater. I just barely allow this—it’s a Fendi sweater, after all—and though I know greater things have been sacrificed for the greater good, let me tell you, this decision was a close call.

“…and it’s Christ-ma-ma-mas.” He takes a huge, stuttering breath in, his face all twisted up: eyebrows up, eyes screwed shut, mouth downturned. “Why Ch-Christmas?”

“I don’t know, bud, that definitely sucks,” I say, trying not to freak out. How are you supposed to comfort a straight person? How are you supposed to comfort someone who just broke up? Ugh—fuck—what happened when Lucky broke up with Michael? He slept a lot, that was for sure. I think the number of fuzzy blankets in his possession tripled.

“Um, dude, do you want to come in or something? Wrap up in something?” Not to be a downer, but I’m starting to get cold, my toes and fingers tingling.

Hunched over, he shoves his face further into my sweater until I can feel the stutter of his breaths against every part of me; in any other situation I would’ve thought this a _great_ development but currently, I’m not so sure.

I pat his back and try again. “Inside?” I offer. “We have an electric blanket and food all that good stuff. You feel kinda freezing. And then we can work through all your… problems, yeah?”

He’s still crying, but then he takes a sharp step away and rips himself out of my arms like he’s suddenly gotten self-conscious. A second later, before I can try to deal with this new development, I see him nod shortly, still not looking at me. Ugh, thank fuck, we can get out of this cold.

Just before I step away to get the door, I hear a quiet admission that sounds like, “Mum was right,” but I’ve got no idea what that means, so I just open the door and try to smile the most inviting smile that’s ever been smiled. What could possibly go wrong with inviting this living landmine into our house?


	9. Christmas Day, The first day of Christmas // S.J.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“Just a minute!”

I look in the mirror again. I’ve washed my face three times with cold water, but my eyes are still puffy and red. Wonderful. Now everyone will know I’ve stooped to the depths of crying in bathrooms. I scrub at my face. If all my skin is red, maybe my eyes won’t stand out, but I stop after a second, because I my desire to look like the Pink Panther isn’t _that_ strong and there’s someone waiting on me outside. I check the mirror one more time—oh God, am I becoming vain; was I too vain; was that why Rachel didn’t want me?—and then hasten for the door, ignoring my sore knuckles, back to their chapped, oozing state after I’d taken off the Band-Aids Bryce’s mom had given to me to wash my hands.

When I open it, I nearly run straight into Bryce.

I squeak, not proud of the sound, and jump backwards.

He slides into the bathroom and kicks the door shut, locks it even though his hands are full. He’s a couple inches taller than me, which is definitely not like Rachel, because Rachel had been as tall as me. Well, when I hunched over, but I haven’t been doing a lot of standing-up-straight since I got to Minnesota. Maybe _that_ ’s why she didn’t want me? Was I too short? Girls like tall guys, right? Tall guys like Bryce. He’s at least six foot; I don’t know where that height comes from, because both of his parents are shorter than him. Also, Bryce has muscles. Like he works out. He’s not _ripped_ , but you can definitely tell that he can pick up some heavy stuff. Maybe Rachel wants a man who looks like _that_ , not a stick, but Mum had said I looked good skinny? Is it possible to be _too_ skinny? It’s better than being fat, though, right? I feel fat, though, after eating. I should’ve eaten less.

“I, um. What’s this?” I look at him, already feeling the blush coming to my cheeks: I definitely don’t mean to linger on his arms or anything, but his sweater is snug so I can see his biceps underneath. He’s offering me a short, wide glass of pale-yellow liquid, holding a glass of his own by the top; it’s at his lips, obscuring a little of his face so I can’t read his expression and putting a dent in his full lower lip; he’s tipping it back a little like he’s sipping, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

He lowers his drinking had a little bit, still holding out the glass to me. “It’s Limoncello.”

I’ve got my mouth open to say, “I don’t drink,” because I don’t, but then I hear my mother, very faintly, from the living room, where everyone else is either unwrapping presents or watching others unwrap presents— _I’m so sorry Sunny didn’t bring you anything! I_ told _him to get gifts, he can be so ungrateful, tch, let me go find him, he’s been in the bathroom for_ ages—and I take the glass faster than I’ve ever taken anything ever before, brushing his fingers and nearly dropping the whole thing onto the tile floor, and down an entire mouthful in one go.

Right.

That’s a mistake.

It’s not _horrible_ , but it’s fizzy, I’m not ready for the way the bubbles go up the back of my nose and my sinuses and I snort, nearly choking, having to sputter violently into my elbow.

Bryce watches this whole spectacle with amusement glittering in his eyes, leaning against the wall like an actually dapper person. “I get the ‘wanting to be drunk’ thing, but you should probably slow down just a little.”

I nod, clearing my throat, my face still buried in my elbow and my eyes squeezed shut tightly so Bryce doesn’t see them watering and think I’m crying some more. The drink leaves my throat slightly sore for a moment and puts just the slightest bitter aftertaste in my mouth: like lemonade, but boosted. I clear my throat again. When I open my eyes and let my arm drop, he’s still watching me.

His lips curve up, eyes crinkling, and I get some weird, tingly feeling that’s kind of nice; I don’t want to pry into in case it goes away, so I take another gulp of alcohol. People drink to forget, right? I definitely need to forget this absolute trash day as soon as possible, so I make it a goal to see how fast I can get this glass down, even though it’s pretty full. I’m egged on by the reminder of Rachel’s voice: _I just don’t really think this is working out._

There’s a rap on the bathroom door and I nearly choke—again—my horrified eyes meeting Bryce’s not-so-horrified ones right before his head turns like an owl’s, checking the lock as my mom jiggles the handle.

“Sunny? Are you in there?”

I’ve got a death grip on my glass; I’m surprised it hasn’t shattered yet.

Bryce swivels back around to look at me. Then, a split-second later, before I can even open my mouth to weakly tell my mom I’m still busy, he holds his finger up to curling lips.

“Sorry, no S.J. here,” he calls.

“Who is this?” she demands.

“Bryce,” he drawls.

Silence. Then: “Oopsie! Do you know where Sunny is?”

“No,” says Bryce. “Perhaps you should try looking outside.”

My mom titters—she obviously doesn’t understand what Bryce means, which is probably _Get the fuck out of my house_ if the way they’ve been behaving towards each other the whole time I’ve been here is any indication—and says something else that I don’t really hear because Bryce is still looking at me while he has this conversation with my mother and I don’t know why I’m getting red, so I down the rest of my glass just as fast as I started it so I have an excuse to break eye contact. The Limoncello doesn’t taste like I’d expected alcohol to taste: it’s sweet and tangy. Appealing. Not like the bitter stuff I’ve smelled my parents drinking.

I hear my mom say, “Okay!”, and then her heavy footsteps recede.

She’s gone.

Bryce holds out a hand, and I give him my glass.

“Thanks.” I’m surprised by how rough my voice is and, wide-eyed, I clear my throat, looking at him and flushing.

Bryce looks at the empty glass. Then looks at me. Then holds out his full glass.

I look at it. “Weren’t you drinking from that?”

He shrugs. “You look like you want it a lot more than me right now.”

I can’t really argue with that. I take it.

Don’t even care that his lips have touched it—or maybe I do? I’m definitely thinking about it when I bring the rim to my mouth; wondering whether my lips are where his had been. Which is probably a bit gay? Maybe Rachel wants a boyfriend who’s less gay, but I thought I’d acted normally around her; like a proper man.

“Your mom’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

I shrug. Bryce shifts a little bit. Eyes me like he’s sizing me up for something, and I don’t know why I care about wanting to be deemed worthy of… whatever it is he’s sizing me up for; it’s an unfamiliar feeling, and I distract myself from it by finishing the glass and giving it back to Bryce. “Thanks.”

He looks it with his eyebrows up. Takes it. Looks back at me.

Someone pounds on the door and I jump, nearly smashing my elbow into the sink. Maybe Rachel wants someone less jumpy. I don’t even know why I’m so jumpy. I’m not like this in New York. What’s wrong with me?

“Bryce! Bryce, are you in there?” —A girl’s voice. More pounding. “Get out! I need to pee!”

“Pee downstairs!” Bryce yells, his heavy gaze finally lifting from mine as he twists to glance at the door. I’m treated to a good look at his profile: his nose is straight, so straight, his cheekbones elegantly curving down his face like melting ice; if he’s made of ice, the brightness of his vitality is thawing him the more I get to know him. Re-get to know him? A cord at his neck is standing out in stark relief. He’s all lines and angles and planes, and Rachel had been soft curves. Well, I’d assume they were soft. I hadn’t really touched her, because I didn’t know if she wanted to be touched, and I’d thought it was polite to assume no, and she’d only asked me to touch her _once_ , and I’d gotten all flustered, so the moment hadn’t lasted long. She probably dumped me because I’m not confident enough, but I don’t know how to touch women! I didn’t get a handbook at puberty that was like, _touch here and here, not here_. Or, like, _touch gently_ , or _touch roughly_. Or, like, _touch this one specific part this one specific way_.

“I don’t want to pee downstairs!” the girl yells. “All the Garfield comics are up here!”

“No they’re not!” says Bryce, twisting off the wall to look around me—his flexibility is worrisome. I turn around too, to see what he’s looking at, but there’s just a porcelain toilet. “There’s nothing here. Dad probably took them out because you guys spend hours in here!”

“I don’t spend hours on the toilet, that’s all Peter and the twins!”

“Well, that doesn’t really matter, because no Garfield comics are in here, and I’m not leaving! Pee outside if you don’t like it!”

The girl pounds angrily on the door one more time, and then she leaves, yelling for her mother to get Bryce out of the bathroom.

“We probably shouldn’t stay in here,” I say. I don’t think Bryce is paying attention, though, because he’s opened the closet by the door, now, and is fussing around with stuff in there. There’s the pop of a cap opening, and a moment later he’s backing up, several wet cotton balls in hand.

“Here. For your knuckles. Then we can start breaking out the Aquaphor and Band-Aids. Do you like Hello Kitty, Pokémon, SpongeBob, or Disney princesses?”

I take the cotton balls—they squish—and rubbing alcohol runs down my fingers, making me hiss and flinch. “Um, I don’t really care.”

He turns, his arms buried in the closet like he’s fiddling with something in the far back, and watches while I try to dab the cracks on my skin without making them hurt too much, which is an impossible task. My hands are throbbing like I’ve lit them on fire and whenever he looks at me, my stomach twists all up into knots and I get more useless than I already am.

“Hmm,” he says. Some things in the closet rustle. “We’ll just have to cover you in all four, then. You’ll be a huge hit with the twins.” Then he’s setting down an enormous Aquaphor tub and little boxes of kids’ Band-Aids on the sink counter, taking the cotton balls from my smarting fingers and swiping down the rest of my wounds before squeezing out the alcohol in the sink and chucking the damp mass of remaining cotton into the bin.

My hands are in his—or, just one is, really—and he’s holding me so gently—

He lets go to twist open the Aquaphor, taking out a solid fingerful of goop and repossessing my hand so easily I kind of wonder if he even let go of it in the first place.

“Um—”

“It’s just grease,” says Bryce, slapping down the goop on the back of my fingers and slathering it on. “I’ll even be really careful, so none of it gets on your palms.” He spreads my fingers gently, expression intent as he gets to work; I keep my hand as still as possible if just to feel the warmth and softness of his. Which sounds kind of creepy, when I think about it, and I look away from his bent head. The Aquaphor doesn’t sting like I expect it to: it doesn’t feel like anything at all.

And then his hands are gone again as he starts attacking the Band-Aid boxes, effortlessly spinning me around so he has better access to the bin as he peels apart Band-Aid packets. My shoulders tingle where his hands were when he lets go. I don’t have time to think about that, though, because he swears and sticks the end of an Eevee Band-Aid between his lips, leaning past me to scrub his hands with soap for a second. I’m pressed back against the sink counter and his body is really, _really_ close: close enough to feel his body heat from under his sweater, which is, like, this very chic white knitted garment decorated with lines of brown and, with a flush of white-hot embarrassment, I remember crying on the doorstep and him hugging me, my nose full of the crisp air and his drugging cologne. I’m pretty sure I turn into a tomato.

I pray Bryce doesn’t notice.

Bryce is, thankfully, busy scrubbing his hands try on the towel, and then he’s back to the Band-Aid, and his hands go back on mine and feel way-too-nice.

Bryce finishes with Eevee and unwraps a Disney princess Band-Aid, revealing Ariel. He gets this one on me too, quickly and easily over knuckles that are finally starting _not_ to hurt; it sticks firm and doesn’t even slide around despite all the Aquaphor he’s put on me.

“Do you do this a lot?”

He laughs. Gets another Band-Aid. Ugh, even his laugh is attractive: it’s this soft thing, just a tiny bit breathless. “Yeah, look at my family: four younger siblings, you get used to playing nurse.”

“Oh,” I say. The idiot who’s an only child.

“Mmm. Yeah, and last summer, Mom and Dad decided to go on a cruise and left the kids with me; Amy—she’s the youngest—stuck her hand in a blender—”

“Oh, yikes,” I say, flinching just thinking about it.

“It wasn’t on,” Bryce reassures me.

Another Band-Aid.

He’s smiling.

“She still got cut up pretty bad, though. Ask her about her scar, if you’re interested. She’ll show it to you, and then she’ll show you all the gauze she saved from the doctor’s visit, and the extra wound closure strip thingies and a copy of her record of getting a tetanus shot, and the mole that she _swears_ popped up exactly where she got the shot.”

“Wow,” I say weakly.

“She’s a pack rat and a psycho,” Bryce says fondly.

I don’t know how to respond to this in a way that isn’t rude.

Bryce slaps on the last Band-Aid and gestures for my other hand. I give it to him. Look away so he doesn’t see my blush, because he’s holding my hand like I’m a maiden or something and he’s about to kiss it.

“You got any nasty, gruesome scars,” he asks, “with horrendous origin stories?”

“No. I’m quite boring, I’m afraid.”

He’s hunched over, so when he looks at me, it’s from under his brows, and I lose my breath a little bit, because it’s a bit of a dangerous look, but charged with something else, too, that makes my skin buzz. Which probably means the alcohol is getting to me.

“Hm,” says Bryce. “Don’t sell yourself short. At the risk of sounding like a motivational calendar, everyone’s got interesting stories to bring to the table.”

A laugh bubbles out of my chest; I can’t stop it.

He straps on the last Band-Aid. Pikachu smiles up at me. I flex my fingers experimentally: they’re stiff, their movement hampered by all the bandages, but they don’t hurt.

“Good?”

I smile at him. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“No problem.” He winks—a drop of his eyelid that is _excruciatingly slow_ as it happens—and then grabs all the Band-Aid boxes in his arms, breezing around me to dump them back in the closet, fishing out the empty glasses from wherever he’s put them. “Ready to go out and face the world?” He grimaces. “Or should I say, your mom? Or do you need more alcohol for that?”

I’m kind of left standing there, mouth open a little bit, because I don’t know how to answer.

“Ugh, well,” he says, going for the handle of the door. “ _I_ need a drink. A new one. Come on.”

“Should we be—leaving the bathroom together—”

“What do you mean?” Bryce looks back at me, his eyes sparkling like gems. “I was just bandaging your hands. That’s all.”

Then it’s too late, because the door’s open and Bryce is strolling out like he owns the place. Which, he might, I have no idea; I wish I could be that confident all the time. Instead, I wait until he’s down the hall to peek my head out and see that it’s empty, and by then, Bryce must realize I’m not beside him because he looks over his shoulder, sees me still waffling in the bathroom, and turns right around to tug me out.

“As much as I also want to hide in the bathroom all day, that isn’t super fun,” he says. “Come on. I shall be your knight in shining armour.”

I have to cover my mouth to smother a little laugh, and then his hand’s on the small of my back and he’s walking me down the hall like he’s my personal escort. Nobody even turns around when we get to the living room, like it’s not even weird for two men to be coming out of the same hallway. Well, nobody turns around except my mother; like a predator sensing movement, she’s up in a flash.

“Sunny, where were you?” she demands. “I was looking all over, I thought you were in the bathroom—”

“I—”

Bryce looks over, bored, gives her a bright smile. “We were in my room. I was helping him get Band-Aids on.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t show her my hands as proof; my mom would probably have a heart attack if she saw the pink bandages there. _Sunny!_ she’d say. _Men don’t wear pink, take those off! Someone’s going to think you’re_ gay _!_

“And now,” Bryce says, ignoring his brother, who yells, “BRYCE! You were in MY ROOM without ASKING ME?!” and ignoring my mother, who’s making more demands, “S.J. and I are going to catch up for a bit.”

“Bry, you have to watch me open presents!” Amy screams from the living room.

“You can show me later, mallowbear! I’ll be back in half an hour, tops.”

Amy wails in distress, but doesn’t follow us to the kitchen.

Mum’s left in the doorway, her expression conflicted. Eventually, she goes with, “Don’t make him gay!” She glares at Bryce like she’s forgotten ‘all he did for me in _elementary school_ ’; all of the memories have been replaced by the fact that a _homosexual_.

“Don’t worry,” says Bryce, dry as dust, “I’ll return him to you just as straight as he started.”

And then we turn a corner and Mum is gone.

“Sorry,” I whisper, my stomach turning. “I know there’s nothing wrong with being gay—”

“Spare me the pity,” Bryce says, not unkindly. “I don’t need it. I’m not ashamed of who I am. A bigot won’t change my beliefs, and it’s not your fault for being stuck with her.”

I nod jerkily. _Stuck with her_. That’s kind of what Rachel had said, too. Obviously, I knew she didn’t like my mother, but did she not like her so much that she had to break up with me?

Bryce’s hand is burning on my back.

He finally takes it away when we get to the counter and he sticks the used glasses by the sink; yanks open the fridge and brings out a slender bottle of frosted glass, its contents bright yellow. He puts it on the counter with a clink, then reaches up to the overhead cabinets, having to go up on tip-toe despite his height to reach identical glasses to the ones he’d brought into the bathroom; his sweater and his shirt pull up, and my eyes get caught on the revealed strip of his waist, pale, skin taut. I never looked at Rachel like that. It didn’t seem proper. Is that why she said it wasn’t working? Should I have looked at her more?

Then he’s back on his feet, proper, and his clothes fall back down and I tear my eyes away.

He waggles the bottle at me. “You want more?”

I nod.

“Seltzer?”

I shake my head, and he pours half the glass.

 _Listen_ , Rachel had said. _I’m not saying we can’t be friends. But I think we should take a break for a little bit._

Me, pathetically desperate: _But why?_

_I just… things have been really weird with you. I mean, your mom? I don’t hate her, but I don’t think she’s that great for you, and you’ve obviously got some… problems you’ve got to work out that I can’t help you with. You know what I mean?_

I hadn’t, but I hadn’t told her that. I’d just stood there like a mannequin.

Bryce slides the glass across the counter.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

He pours himself a glass, goes back to sipping, and shoves the bottle back in the fridge after screwing the cap back on. “Alrighty. Time to go to the basement for Adult Time.”

I have no idea what this means, but I can hear my mother speaking to one of Bryce’s siblings like they’re two years old, so I follow him eagerly down the carpeted stairs to get away from her nasal whine, watching him flick switches and illuminate the basement: there’s a large open space like a second living room, home to two couches in an L-shape in front of a TV, covered in a million blankets and pillows, a short oval table between them.

“That’s the second bathroom, if you need it and don’t want to go upstairs.” Bryce points to a door next to an unplugged keyboard leaning on the wall. “That door next to it is the guest bedroom; don’t go in there unless you want to get slapped in the face with a blast of China, because my grandparents are staying in there.”

He makes a beeline for the couch with comfortable familiarity, tossing aside blankets to reveal dark grey couch cushions. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him or not, so I kind of hover around like a teenager lost at a party until he looks at me, arches his eyebrows, and pats the seat next to him.

I sit down very carefully—because I’ve got the book Rachel got me for Christmas tucked against my stomach, under my slacks’ waistband, because I didn’t know where else to hide it from Mum—and more than a little awkwardly. Guys aren’t supposed to be awkward, but I’ve got no idea what I’m doing here. The Qiaos have all been so cruelly nice, Mrs Qiao distracting my mom when Mum started going on her rants about Rachel, Bryce filling up my plate with stuff that was actually edible, the twins jabbering about things that were easy enough to focus on to distract me from the twisty way my insides screwed up.

“What do you want to do? Watch TV? Honestly, I would kill just to watch a normal Hallmark movie because the twins are currently obsessed with a bunch of old movies from my childhood and I could go the rest of my life without ever seeing _Scamper_ again.” He picks up a remote from table and waggles it, turns on the TV and clicks through banal Christmas specials, hiking his feet up onto the table, his ankles showing between the top of his socks and the bottom of his black jeans. They’re just _ankles_ , I don’t know why I’m looking.

“I thought you wanted to catch up?”

He looks at me and grins; turns down the volume on the TV until it’s barely audible and reaches out and grabs a throw pillow with a bunch of black-and-white zigzags, jamming it atop his chest. Takes a sip from his drink. “Oh, did you actually want to do that? I just thought you needed an excuse to get away from everyone for a bit.”

I look down at the glass in my hand: it’s not a particularly big glass, but it’s not small either, but half of what he’s poured is already gone. I should probably be slowing down. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, I couldn’t _not_ do anything. You looked like you were going to cry again when your mom started haranguing you about Rachel _again_.”

I flinch a little and probably don’t manage to hide the reaction in time. “Yeah.”

“Mom didn’t approve?” Bryce asks.

“No. Not really.”

Bryce hums sympathetically.

“I don’t even know why,” I say miserably. “Rachel was _fine_. She was great. She went to Harvard; she makes ninety-k a year—but, but don’t tell my mom I know that—and she likes crafty things, reading, and sci-fi. And we both liked, um, nature stuff.”

Bryce opens his mouth. Closes it, clears his throat, takes a sip of his drink.

“What?”

“Don’t get offended.”

I look at him in horror. “What does _that_ mean?”

“Nothing. Just don’t get offended, but you sound a bit like you’re reading off a back of a book, bud.”

I want to wail. “Is that what I got wrong? I don’t understand, I don’t know what I was supposed to be doing differently! She didn’t _tell_ me.”

I must look like I’m going to cry or something, because he bonks me with the pillow lightly, trying to cheer me up. “Women are a mystery, man. That’s why I’m gay.”

Despite his efforts, I stay miserable. “But, like… they’re just _people_.”

“People are hard, too,” Bryce offers.

A little huffy laugh comes out of my mouth. “I can’t imagine that _you_ ever have problems with people.”

“Actually,” says Bryce, “I went to Target the other day, and you _would not believe_ how rude the cashier was. It’s like, she didn’t understand why I suddenly needed to buy a hundred-plus ornaments and new garlands and lights, like nobody _else_ has ever set up a Christmas tree at the last minute.”

I grab onto this other conversation topic like a lifeline. “Oh, um, did you? It looks really nice. The tree. I couldn’t tell, I mean.”

“Aww, thank you.” He bares his teeth in a predatory grin.

I definitely don’t know how to deal with people who grin at me like that, so I down the rest of my glass like it’s a shot, and I don’t even cough this time. “Do you always put it up last minute?”

He snorts. “It’s been up since November, but it fell over. Not magically, obviously, but I’m no snitch.”

“Yikes.” I fiddle with my glass and then just put it on the table so I don’t break it or something. “I’ve never had anything like that happen. We don’t do Christmas trees at our house. At Mum’s hou—apartment.”

“Oh, that’s a shame!” says Bryce. He chucks the pillow off his chest and stands up so fast I nearly fall over, setting his drink down on the table and jumping my legs like I’m not even an inconvenience. “That reminds me. Wait here.”

I watch him disappear up the stairs, a little dizzy, not quite sure what’s happening but, like, I definitely get a solid look at his ass. I jerk my eyes away, though, because I’m pretty sure it’s not proper to be staring at another guy’s butt: it’s _super weird_ ; doubly weird since Bryce is gay and I’m not, and I think _Role reversal?_ hysterically.

Oh, fuck, what’s wrong with me? No wonder Rachel didn’t want to stay together, I’m so fucking _gay_.

I’m busy descending into self-loathing when Bryce comes back down, a hefty box under his arm and another smaller one in his hands. They’re wrapped: one with dinosaurs in Christmas sweaters on it and the other boasting block snowmen and Santa’s face in between curly green letters that say ‘Merry Fucking Christmas’ which I figure is very… Bryce-y, even though I’ve only known—re-known?—him for a couple hours.

“Here,” he says, inordinately pleased; he twirls the dinosaur box with a couple fingers and then dumps it into my lap; it’s followed swiftly by Merry Fucking Christmas, which is the larger of the two and nearly obscures my view of him as he passes in front of me.

I stare at it dumbly. “What’re these?”

“They’re your Christmas presents,” says Bryce, flopping back down on the couch. “I didn’t think you’d come, but Mom always says it’s better to be prepared and I couldn’t, in all good faith, let her be the only one buying someone a present. You know, friendly family competition and all that stuff. Do you want to open them here, or back upstairs in front of the tree for maximum Christmas-ness?”

“I can’t—”

“It’s just a present,” says Bryce. “Well, two, but that’s not the point. If it makes you feel any better, my mom even got _your_ mom something. If it makes you feel better, I did not.”

I kind of… slide the presents over onto the couch seat so they’re between me and Bryce, because for some reason, he’s feeling a lot closer than he had been before and I need a barrier between us.

“Um, why not?”

“Because I don’t like it when people I just met are pushy and demand for me to buy them things.” Another sharp smile graces his mouth, and his glass is back in hand, and he’s looking at me while he drinks.

“Sorry.” Mortified, I look away, ignoring the presents even though I’m itching with curiosity. “I didn’t know she did that—that’s super rude. Was that yesterday—” I flush, sure I’ve just incriminated myself of avoiding him in the bookstore, but he must not notice—or care, I don’t know—because he doesn’t look irritated or enraged.

“Yeah,” says Bryce. “Also, today, she told me she wanted me to be your wife, so I don’t feel any regret at all. In terms of _your_ present, part of me might’ve just felt really fucking terrible for the kid who was stuck with her.”

I choke. “I—uh, sorry, _what_? The—what was that first bit?”

“The wife bit? Yeah, that was weird.” He puts his feet back up on the table. “I love how she has no problem with… transgender hypotheticals, but she hates the gays.”

I can’t even touch the presents, now—not that I’d even actually considered the idea of accepting them—because they’ve been tainted by _Mum_.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know she said that…”

“Dude, it’s fine. You don’t need to apologize for your mom, that’s not your job.”

My cheeks are red and I’m looking away; I can barely believe that this family has let me into their home after Mum had gone on and… wreaked havoc, apparently, before I’d even gotten here.

“Anyway, open your presents before the twins find us down here and open them for you. They’re monsters.”

I kind of… shove them towards him, ungainly, and the big box falls over to jam into his thigh. “I can’t take these. I didn’t bring anything for you guys, I’m sorry, I probably should’ve brought something before showing up unannounced. I don’t even know why you let me in.”

Bryce looks at me and tilts his head, taking the boxes and re-stacking on the table. “I mean, well, if you don’t take them, I’m just going to have to figure out where you live and mail them to you. The cute guy who showed up and cried on my doorstep and probably deserves to be at least a _little_ happy on Christmas. Presents usually make that better. Free stuff, you know? Everyone loves free stuff.”

“Um…” I’m not sure how to respond to that, my cheeks scarlet, because that’s the second time he’s called me ‘cute,’ and I definitely still remember the first time, when I’d been freezing to death on his stoop and he’d yanked open the door in a flood of brightness, backlit like an avenging angel. Rachel hadn’t called me cute. She’d said I looked _interesting_. ‘Interesting’ isn’t exactly synonymous with ‘good-looking,’ I know. Maybe she wanted someone who looks hotter? Like Bryce, who probably has no trouble at all ever picking up wo— _men_. “…Sorry for crying on your doorstep. And, like, all that other stuff. Y’know. You didn’t really have to help me.”

“Rough breakup, I get it,” says Bryce. “I’m gay and even _I_ ’ll say that dumping someone on Christmas is a pretty bitchy thing to do.”

“It wasn’t her fault. I probably just… could’ve…”

He must be able to tell that my pathetic voice is getting a little watery, because he hooks an arm around the back of the couch and drags an enormous dark blue fuzzy blanket from _somewhere_ , piling it in my lap.

I want to protest a little that I don’t need a blanket, but my traitorous hands are already clutching at it like it’s going to save me from drowning in the depths of my stupid emotions. Dad would say, if he were here, that men aren’t supposed to be emotional, and he’d probably slap me until I stopped crying.

“I probably could’ve been better for her. Like, done proper stuff and all that. Had sex with her?”

He chokes.

“Sorry, too much information.”

“No, it’s fine. _How_ long have you been together?”

“Um, like, five days?” I say, my cheeks on fire, because that’s probably the most pathetic relationship Bryce has ever heard of and I don’t know why I suddenly can’t keep my mouth shut. “But we’ve been talking for two and a half years. She never had a problem with me before. Did she have to meet me in person to decide I wasn’t manly enough? Or does she just not want a long-distance relationship? Because that’s _fine_! But she just said stuff wasn’t working, and I don’t know what that means, what was I doing wrong? If she’d told me, I could’ve made it better.” I look at him, miserable. “Was I not independent enough? But we’ve known each other since before I got here, she knows that I don’t, like, _need_ Mum.” I feel like I’m betraying Mum by saying that. She’s done so much for me, and this is how I repay her. “But, like, Mum’s been mean to Rachel, too.”

Bryce hums sympathetically.

“And I didn’t know she was going to take the car! Mum doesn’t drive, you know. She doesn’t have a license, she’s not supposed to drive, and she said I could use the car today. But then she took it this morning, and she didn’t even tell me, so I didn’t find out until I was going to leave, and then I had to call Rachel and ask her to pick me up, because her parents live, like, thirty miles away from Mum’s, and that was embarrassing. And maybe I did something wrong in the car? Like, didn’t talk enough? Because then she pulled me aside right before lunch and said, Hey, we need to chat, and no great conversation has ever started with ‘Hey, we need to chat.’” I pick at the blanket a little. “And then, obviously, she told me _stuff_ , and then I just left? I didn’t want to stick around after that. You know. Maybe I should’ve gone home? Instead of coming here. But here was kind of closer? So it was easier to walk. I hope that’s okay.”

Bryce makes this strangled noise that I don’t really know how to interpret and I immediately feel horrible.

“Sorry for, um, talking so much about myself. I’ll shut up now. Y’know, if you want to talk about yourself or something.” I tuck my legs up underneath me, hiding them under the blanket. In the background, the TV is still flashing, but I think Bryce has forgotten it’s on. I fix my gaze on it just because it’s somewhere else to look; I can’t face him, because he’s so very perfect, and I’m so very not, and he’s probably laughing at me in his head.

“No worries,” says Bryce. “Free therapy session, right here, for free.” He stretches his arm out over the back of the couch, and I swear I can feel his arm behind my shoulders. Because he’s, like, way close now? And he’s in the corner still, so he definitely hasn’t been the one moving, but I don’t know how I got here. “Dr Qiao says you should probably ask Rachel to clarify a little bit about why she broke up with you, since you’re pretty upset over it and it sounds like she didn’t really give you much to work with. Like, as in talk to her. Even though you probably don’t want to talk to her.”

“I don’t think she wants to talk to me,” I say wretchedly. “She said she wanted a break for a couple of weeks. Am I _that_ much of a disaster?” I look at him. His face is really close; I’m tucked up under his shoulder right next to his side. He’s close enough to kiss, and I remember when I kissed Rachel, and that makes the whole situation _worse_ , and I have to look away to the TV and its drivel, because I’m _not_ thinking about kissing him and how it would probably be different from kissing Rachel, because Bryce is a guy.

“You’re frazzled because you’re going through a breakup, bud,” Bryce says. “You’ll be fine in a couple of days. Trust me, as someone who’s gone through multiple breakups, this feels like the end of the world, but it isn’t.”

“It doesn’t feel like the end of the world,” I mumble. “I just… wanna know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” says Bryce. “Sometimes people break up because they don’t fit well together. Just because you didn’t fit well with Rachel doesn’t mean you won’t ever fit well with someone else.”

“Right, sure.” I pull the blanket up to my shoulders.

Bryce taps the side of my arm with his hand: I don’t even know when it moved there; when his arm made its way behind me and when my head started resting on his shoulder. And I probably should be moving away, but I feel fuzzy and nice and there’s warmth curling in my stomach even though the book is poking me there, too.

“I don’t like it when people don’t believe what I’m saying.”

“Must not be something that happens to you a lot,” I mumble.

He looks at me, a look of almost comical surprise on his face. “You’re snarky when you’re drunk!”

“I’m not drunk,” I say, relieved to talk about something other than Rachel, because I’m not. “I’m just buzzed.” That’s why, I tell myself, I don’t pull away, or mind when he steals part of my blanket to cover his lap. That’s why I curl a tiny bit closer, liking his warmth and the way he smells like pepper and pine. There’s no other reason.


	10. The second day of Christmas // Bryce

“He was cute,” I say to Ella with a little grin on my face from the memory. “Like a lost little lemon-smeared puppy following me around. I mean that in the best way possible. And I kind of remember him a little, now. I think he was a pretty quiet kid?” I lean against the counter and shove a plate back into its stack in the cupboard.

“Aww, sounds adorable.” Ella’s voice is tinny from being on speaker, my phone faceup on the counter.

“He was.” I pick up another plate and don’t tell her how he’d cuddled with me ( _cuddled_! I want to scream and do a fist pump) until Amy had run downstairs, furious that a half-hour was up and I still wasn’t there to watch her unwrap her presents, and asked very loudly why I was sleeping with S.J., at which he’d leapt away to the other side of the couch like he’d been burned. Which, you know, _Thanks Amy_ , but she’s six, so…

I also don’t tell Ella about how I’d been all disgusting and mushy and told him _Our doors are always open_ and _Come over any time_ , because I’m currently blaming _that_ on hormones. I’m not _attached_ or anything. I just feel really bad for him, with Brandi as his mom.

“And I’m so glad he liked his present. You know, because he got one.” Ella clears her throat pointedly.

“Listen,” I say. Shove the plate in the cupboard. “I _sent_ the package in the mail. You _will_ get it.”

“When, exactly?” Ella asks. “Because it is the day after Christmas, and it is not here.”

“You’re so demanding. Give it a week, okay? You know stupid international shipping takes forever.”

“God, Bryce,” says Ella. “It’s almost like you did your Christmas shopping last minute— _again_ —and sent all the packages on Christmas Eve.”

“For the record, it was the day _before_ Christmas Eve.”

“Wow. I’m so impressed.”

“Like you’re any better. I still haven’t gotten _your_ present.”

“I didn’t send you one.”

“Liar.”

“Fine,” she snaps, “but at least I sent it _two_ days before Christmas Eve.”

I cackle. “That doesn’t make it better!”

“I beat you by one day, you bitch,” she says. “Stop laughing.”

“I won’t.”

She growls at me.

Before we can get into the age-old argument over who’s better, my phone lights up with another incoming call. “I have to go,” I say. “Amy’s calling me.”

“Aw,” says Ella. “Say ‘hi’ to her for me. I love Amy. Way more than you.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up and hang up on me, Bryce.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too.”

I disconnect before Amy stops calling—because Amy is impatient and goes for quantity over quality and will call you fifty times in ten minutes, hanging up and recalling after the first ring without giving you time to pick up—and hit the green button. “What’s up, mallowbear?”

“Hi, Bry!” There’s quiet for a sec; I hear rustling, the soft sound of voices in the background. Then Amy’s back. “Guess where I am right now?” she chirps.

I grab a bunch of bowls from the dishrack and stack them up. “Hmm, your room?”

“Nope! I’m in the kitchen! Guess who’s here?”

“Mom,” I say.

“No! It’s a boy! Guess again!”

“Dad.” I put the bowls in the cupboard. “Peter. Andrew? Amy, if you and Andrew are hiding all the silverware again, I swear to god—”

“No!” she giggles. “You’re terrible at this game! It’s the guy from yesterday!” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, the one that you were sleeping with?”

I stare at my phone, frozen in the middle of putting another bowl in the cupboard. “What? S.J.?”

“Yeah! He’s eating right now! He’s eating _really_ fast. I don’t think it’s fair that _yeye_ yells at _me_ for eating fast, and not _him_! He’s eating, like, three times faster than I’ve ever eaten!”

“What’s S.J. doing at the house? —Your house?” I demand, shoving the bowl in and grabbing my phone like it can give me all the answers. What’s wrong, why’s he there?

“I think he thought you were here,” says Amy. “He was looking all sad on the doorstep and he asked for you—”

“When?” I demand.

“Stop interrupting me! He’s eating, now. Dad likes him because he eats more than we all do.”

There’s a long pause.

“Put Mom on.”

“No!”

“Amy!”

“NO!” I hear the patter of little feet running away from the kitchen. “You should come home!” says Amy. “I wanna see you again! You didn’t spend enough time with us on Christmas! You spent all your time with _him_!”

I swear, already forgetting about the dishes. “Okay, I’ll come over.” Shit, did his mom _die_ or something? Like, not that it had been a _fake_ invitation, but I hadn’t really expected him to show up after my emotional vomit yesterday, and now he’s back over at my parents’ house, asking for me?

My ego likes that.

I tell my ego to calm the fuck down, because now’s not the time.

“Okay! Hurry up! I’m going to see if he wants to play Camp,” says Amy, and then she hangs up on me.

I swear again, and text Ella as I run out of my house, grabbing my coat: _SJ’s at my parents’ house?????_

Ella shoots me back immediately: _HAHAHAHAHA why??_

Ella says: _You Casanova_

Ella says: _Did he miss you that much?_

 _Shut up_ , I text back, because I feel the need to defend his virtue. _You’re just jealous_

_Never. Go get your man, bitch_

_HE’S NOT MY MAN_

_Are we in the denial stage of realizing that this guy’s too precious for your crusty heart?_

I don’t reply to that and tell her that S.J. is a disaster in terms of whatever the fuck his sexuality might be, because Ella’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve a reply, and also I’m too busy driving.

I think I make it to the house in record time and run inside, convinced I’m going to find him shot or something (how much of an emergency does it need to be for an almost-stranger to come over to your house the day after he gets an invitation?) but when I skid into the kitchen in socks, everything’s normal. Well, as normal as it can be, given the situation. S.J.’s at the table, _both_ my parents cooing and shoving food at him like he’s their long-lost child that just came home after the war, a pair of chopsticks in his hands. He twists around when the door slams open and takes in my frazzled-ness in a head-to-toe _Look_ (his eyes are _blue_ , ice-chip blue) that definitely makes me want to start licking certain body parts of his ( _Rein it in, Bryce_ , I tell myself).

Then he blushes. Adorably.

He’s one hundred percent a disaster.

I’m so fucked.

“Hi,” he says. “I hope it’s okay I came over?” He glances away. “I couldn’t really stay at my place.”

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to seem casual and not like I’ve just sprinted from the bottom of the driveway to the kitchen, convinced he was bleeding out on the floor. Before I can say anything else or ask him if he’s okay, Amy shoots down the hallway, screaming bloody murder; she launches herself at my legs, nearly felling me like a tree.

I catch a glimpse of a tiny smile on S.J.’s face before he turns away, hiding his face.

“Eat more,” my mom tells him, recapturing his attention. “You’re so skinny!”

He mumbles something while I try to shove Amy down so she doesn’t climb me like the cats climb the Christmas tree. “Mallowbear, quit it, can I take off my coat?”

She follows me into the living room: “Bry, you have to play Camp with us! I want to play Camp, but nobody except Andrew wants to play with me, and you can’t play proper when you’ve only got two people!”

“Why don’t you play with _yeye_ and _nainai_?” I ask her. “I’m sure they’d love to spend time with you.” In the closet, the red-orange Arc’teryx coat I’d gotten him for Christmas (courtesy of his mom bitching for eighteen minutes and fifty-six seconds that he refused to wear all his old jackets which, if they’re from ten-plus years ago, is understandable) is hung up neatly. Great to know he hadn’t frozen himself, this time, because again, I see no strange car anywhere outside the house.

I can practically _hear_ Dad preening, in the kitchen, as S.J. praises his food. Fuck, Jesus fuck, what’s going on? At this rate my parents are going to adopt him, despite the fact that he’s already a legal adult.

“Okay,” I say to Amy, who’s now rattling on in a whisper about how she doesn’t know what to do about the present Brandi got her, because she doesn’t really want it. “We can deal with it in a bit, mallowbear.”

Amy tugs on my sleeve relentlessly, unsatisfied. “Bry! Pay attention to me! Andrew doesn’t want his either.”

I sigh, because now I need to find a way to dispose of a couple of pairs of the ugliest fucking socks I’ve ever seen (neon pink with lime pompoms for Amy, and shit-brown with green pom-poms for Andrew; both of which are Men’s Large) without my mother coming after me, insisting that the kids can cut off the pompoms and wear them when they get older, as if _anyone_ would ever wear those socks.

“I don’t think Peter or Viv liked their presents either,” Amy whispers, still clinging to my leg.

“I get that,” I say, actively not thinking about what Brandi had gotten _them_. “And I promise I’ll help you, but you gotta leave me alone so I can do adult stuff for a little bit, okay?”

“Adult stuff? What’re you going to do, be boring with S.J.?”

“That’s exactly it.”

She lets go of me to glare and stomp her foot, but then a moment later she’s running down the hall, yelling to everyone else that I’m home.

“Hey, also, Ella says hi!” I yell after her.

“Amy, lower your voice!” My dad hollers from where he’s situated at the table, eating a _char siu bao_. Mom’s looking in the fridge like she’s planning to stuff S.J. like a turkey. (With more food. Not other stuff.)

“Hey,” I say, pulling out the chair next to his. He’s sitting where I’d been yesterday, which is usually Viv’s seat; I steal Amy’s place and figure she won’t mind, since she’s not here right now. “What’s up?”

He looks up at me through long eyelashes ( _hrrngh_ ), left-over _char kway teow_ noodles hanging from his mouth. He shoves them in quickly with his chopsticks. “It’s kind of complicated,” he mumbles, looking away.

“Eh, Bryce, leave him alone and let him eat,” Dad says from across the table. He waves a _char siu bao_ at me. “Are you hungry?”

“It’s three p.m.,” I say.

He looks at me like, _So?_

I rephrase: “I’ve eaten already.”

“S.J.,” says my mom, still at the fridge. “Do you want _satay_? Dad has some meat left over from yesterday, he didn’t want to cook it all in case we couldn’t finish.”

“No thank you, ma’am, I’m good, really.”

She closes the fridge while my dad pushes the rest of the plate of _char kway teow_ across the table. “Here, finish, finish. There isn’t much left.”

S.J. protests, but not very hard, and ends up taking the last of the noodles anyway, not even looking regretful about having to eat them: they disappear faster than I’ve seen food disappear before (and let me tell you, you see food disappear _fast_ when you’ve got nine people at the same table)—it’s like he has a black hole for a stomach. I have to wonder if he’s been starving himself, because he _is_ boney, or if he normally looks like that. I’m staring at him for so long that I have to sternly tell myself I’m not about to be this guy’s gay awakening (if he would ever even swing that way) because it’s Not Cool to mess with straight people. Straight-ish people?

“Sorry for coming over,” he mutters when Dad stands up from the table to take empty plates to the sink.

“Don’t be. Do tell, though: did you walk, again? Because then you should probably be a bit sorry, considering it’s in the single digits.”

He blushes. “I took a cab this time,” he said. “I couldn’t stay home. I—” he clears his throat, looking at his empty plate intensely. “This is going to sound really stupid, but my mum took my phone, and I kind of freaked out a bit. All my stuff’s on there, and she’s got… she’s got her thumbprint and everything on it even though I took it off already, and—” He takes a _deep_ breath in and puts an elbow on the table, hides his face in his hand. “—everything’s just kind of really screwed up. Sorry. Again. I didn’t think—I didn’t mean to bother your parents. I thought you lived here and I could just drop by and say hi real quick.” His cheeks are still pink.

“It’s cool, dude,” I say, because I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say: it’s becoming pretty obvious that this dude has some Problems with a capital ‘P,’ and as much as I’d love to help him solve them, I’m not actually a licensed therapist. “As you can tell, my parents love guests. Especially when they’re an excuse to get rid of all the leftovers. The kids hate leftovers.”

He laughs softly, covering his mouth with his hand. He’s got bandages on again, SpongeBob plastered across his knuckles, so Mom’s clearly gotten to all his wounds already. “Yeah, Amy told me that. She’s really cute.”

“Yeah, she wasn’t really that cute yesterday,” I say, _when she was interrupting us. In the basement. Remember that? Also, would you mind sharing your feelings on that so I can know if I can hit on you without you panicking? Because your mom obviously thinks you’re straight as a yardstick but also you keep looking at me like a dog that really wants to be petted._

I absolutely don’t think: _Hrrngh, I would pet you so hard however much you wanted._

“Oh. I, um, don’t remember a lot of yesterday.”

Fucking shit. Did I accidentally get him _blackout drunk_? I try to remember how much seltzer I’d put in the bathroom drinks, and figure it’s probably my job to remind him of what happened, so he doesn’t end up with Terrible Regrets and sock me six ways to Sunday when someone else inevitably tells him.

“Um, well, you came over and ate, and then you cried in the bathroom, and then we went downstairs—”

“No, I definitely remember that part,” he says hastily, turning scarlet.

“Oh, great,” I say, so relieved I’m going to fucking melt out of this chair. “Fantastic! After we went upstairs, the rest of it was normal Christmas stuff. Amy yelled a lot, because she likes being loud. A cat ended up in your lap.”

“There’s cats?” He twists around with the eagerness of someone who’s never had a pet before, and never experienced a cat sleeping on their head or getting the zoomies at three in the morning.

“Yeah. If you haven’t seen them yet, they’re probably hiding in the Christmas tree. They’re usually shy when it comes to strangers but sometimes that’s overridden by them being attention whores who like getting petted.”

“That sounds nice,” S.J. says with a wistful look.

“It involves a lot of them screaming at you while you’re busy doing something else,” I say.

He does that quiet laugh again, then looks up, wide-eyed, when my dad comes back to the table.

“Done with your plate?” he asks, nodding at the dish.

“Um, yes. Thank you. Very much. You really didn’t have to feed me, and I can help wash up—”

“No, no,” says Dad. “You’re a guest, sit down, you stay there. Do you want anything else? We have cookies and snacks, and soda…”

“I’m good, thank you, sir.”

My dad nods, pleased, and goes off to the appliance part of the kitchen to help Mom with the dishes.

I lean over a little toward S.J.’s ear. “Wow, he offered you the cookies, you should feel special. He doesn’t even tell _me_ where he keeps those. Then again,” I add, a little more for my benefit, “you did call him ‘sir.’”

S.J. turns red—fuck, when is this guy _not_ blushing—and makes a noise that sounds halfway between wheezing, chuckling, and choking. “It’s, um, _polite_ ,” he insists, once he can talk normally.

Then, before I can say anything vaguely flirtatious (just to see how he’d react), Amy barrels back into the kitchen, Camp in hand. Somehow, we both get dragged into the living room, because Amy is nothing if not tenacious, and roped into the game, and no, I don’t even care that Cute Guy is smart, too, why are you even asking? Or the fact that he’s got never-ending patience when dealing with the twins. Whatever, I’m sure tons of people are smart and good with kids, it doesn’t _mean anything_.

By dinner, Amy’s in love and has deemed S.J. her new boyfriend (which I tell her is illegal, because she’s a minor, and she glares at me) and makes _him_ sit between her and Andrew at the table (I’m not jealous or anything, shut up) and I’m pretty sure I’m getting replaced, and I can’t even find it in me to be mad. Did he cast a spell on me or something?

By the time dinner’s over, I’m not _mooning_ after him or anything, I just think it’s prudent for him to have my phone number so _he_ can call me instead of Amy, if (when???) he comes over next, because I don’t exactly spend all my time at my parents’ house. I consider giving him my address, too, but figure that would probably be too forward, so just barely manage to restrain myself, and it’s so not fucking fair how easily this guy is getting information out of me, he’s not even _trying_. He looks so excited, too, when we plug in the Christmas tree—like he’s never seen a Christmas tree before. His eyes reflect the colored lights and, shit, I might’ve just met him again two days ago—after more than twenty years—but I already want to give him the world.


	11. The third day of Christmas // S.J.

“I just don’t want you spending too much time with him!” Mum cries. “I don’t want you to become gay, you’re my precious boy, you know that! I want you to have a normal life!”

“Why does it _matter_?” I yell back. “What’s wrong with being gay? You were _fine_ with him before!”

“Baby, it’s not right! I want you to stop seeing him. I don’t think he’s right in the head! Did you see how he treated me on Christmas—he’s nothing like I remember him being, he was such a sweet boy when he was ten, but now that I think about it, he was probably trying to take advantage of you—everyone wants to take advantage of you, Sunny—”

“ _No they don’t, Mum!_ ”

“Sunny, listen to me—”

“Just because you were screwed over by Dad doesn’t mean I’m going be like you!” It’s mean, it’s so mean, but I don’t care, because I’m so, so angry: she took my phone, and then she deleted everything on it, either on purpose or accidentally, I have no idea, and I don’t even care, because it’s the same outcome, and now everything’s gone, and even though I’ve got it back and I _know_ I can redownload Gmail on my phone and access my plane ticket—it’s still there—I feel trapped in this disgusting, horrible state again, and she’s not letting me leave and she’s trying to control my life, like she used to when I was younger.

Tears are welling in her eyes now. “Why would you say that, Sunny, you know I loved your father! He was the best thing in my life, I loved him!”

I look at her. I’m sad for her, I realize kind of dully; sad that she couldn’t see what was in front of her while it was happening; sad that she couldn’t break herself out of it; sad that she still can’t acknowledge it.

“Anyway, Sunny,” she says, apparently done with the crying now, even though there are a couple of mascara streaks down her cheeks. “You’ll stay here, alright? So I can take care of you?”

“You don’t need to take care of me, Mum. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” she says. “You need me! That’s okay, though, I need you here too. Here, what’ll we do for dinner, is there anything in the fridge? Are there any ingredients? Maybe I should run to Aldi’s…”

“Mum,” I say, frustrated with the way she’s changed the topic, sickness twisting up my stomach until I feel like I’m going to vomit, the food I’d eaten at Bryce’s house roiling in my stomach. I’d probably eaten too much, there. Could Mum tell? I shouldn’t bring it up, though, probably. “Are you going to apologize?”

She turns around from the refrigerator. “Hm? Apologize for what?”

“Taking my phone without permission? Deleting everything on it? Saying all those terrible things about Bryce?”

“Oh, honey,” she titters at me like I’m crazy. “I bought you that phone, it’s mine, you know, so I can take it whenever I want! I don’t need to apologize for that.”

“This is _my_ phone, Mum. _I_ bought it, last year, with my own money.”

“I didn’t even damage it!” she says, not listening. “There’s no scratches or cracks or anything. I don’t even know why you’re so mad.”

I stare at her. She’s right: there aren’t any scratches or cracks, everything can be re-downloaded, it’s not like information isn’t ever backed up nowadays. Oh God, I want to laugh. I think I’m going insane.

“And I didn’t say any terrible things about Bryce,” Mum continues. “I just think he should get some help, you know? It’s not healthy that he’s like that, he should get some help so he can be normal and have a good life like you! You know, I always thought it was a little suspicious that he wanted to hang out with you so much as a kid. Nobody else wanted to hang out with you! Why did _he_?”

“Mum,” I say, bile rising in my throat. Of course it’s true—that nobody else wanted to hang out with me because of my ratty clothes and unwashed hair and all that gross stuff about me as a kid that I wish I could change—but she doesn’t need to bring it up all the time.

“You were always so lonely as a child, you never had any friends except for him—”

“I didn’t have any friends in school because you kept chasing them away,” I tell her bitterly. “You never let anyone come over, and you never let me share any of my things, and—”

“We had a messy house! And you know you’re so absent-minded, I didn’t want you to lose your toys! That’s why I had to keep taking them away from you, you know? You always lost things so easily and we didn’t have the kind of money to keep buying you things! It’s better not to lose things at all. Now, what are we going to eat? There’s some leftover spaghetti in here from a few days ago; I think I ate all the food from the Chows…”

“Mum! You can’t just keep coming up with excuses for things!”

“They’re not excuses, Sunny! Stop yelling at me, I haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m starting to get frustrated with you! What’s wrong with you? You never used to yell at me so much! Don’t you talk to me like that, or there’ll be consequences.”

“Like what, you’ll take my phone away?”

She slams the fridge door shut; I jump. She holds out a hand. “Exactly. Give it to me.”

I take a step back. _It’s my phone, it’s my phone, it’s my phone_ , I think. _Mine, all mine, she doesn’t get to take it._ “No.”

“Sunny.”

“No,” I say, and take another step back, towards the living room and my suitcase. “And you know what? _I don’t care_ that Bryce is gay. I think he’s—I think he’s _fantastic_ , and he was honest with me and told me he doesn’t remember me that well, but you know what? He’s still treated me better in the past two days than _you_ ’ve treated me in the past twenty-eight years—”

“Don’t you say that, Sunny!” my mom shrills, coming around the table to follow me.

“I will say it, because it’s _true_! I’m sick and tired of you bossing me around! I’m not a pet to order around—”

“You’re my _child_ , I can tell you want to do—”

“No you can’t, _I’m not a child anymore_!” I don’t care that we’re yelling at the top of our voices, or that Mum’s neighbours are going to hear us.

“Sunny—where are you going—you stay right here—” she grabs my arm as I run for the living room; she’s stronger than I remember, but I yank my arm out of her grasp, nearly hitting myself in the eye as I do so.

And then I see, on the floor, _Saga_ , the colourful pages shredded to pieces.

“Mum.”

“You know I don’t want you reading those things, Sunny—”

“Rachel gave that to me!” I yell, actually furious now, it feels like my blood is going to boil out of my body as I try to pick up the pieces, but they’re the size of mulch, it’s like Mum put the book through a shredder; I didn’t even get the chance to read it yet; how did Mum even find it? I thought I’d hidden it at the bottom of my bag, how often has she been going through my stuff? “She gave that for me for Christmas, you can’t just—”

“I don’t care about Rachel!” she screams.

“ _I don’t care that you don’t care!_ _Not everything is about you!_ Jesus Christ, Mum!” I laugh hysterically and chuck a handful of paper bits at her, but they just flutter harmlessly to the ground. “Don’t you have other, better things to do than control me all the time?”

“I’m not controlling you, Sunny! Where are you going? You need to stay here and take care of me!”

“No I don’t.” I’m zipping up my suitcase—everything’s still in it, I hadn’t unpacked when I got here, there wasn’t anywhere for me to put my things if I unpacked—and she’s grabbing at me, trying to stop me, and I’m trying to pull out of her grip without hurting her because I don’t want to become like Dad. “Stop it. Stop it, Mum _stop it!_ ” I shove her away and she staggers backwards, eyes wide.

I haul up my suitcase.

Both of us stand there, for a moment, looking at each other, breathing hard.

“You don’t need me to take care of you,” I say, surprised by how calm my voice is. “And, I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going to go?” she demands as I go, latching onto my arm so I’m dragging her across the apartment. “Sunny. Sunny! Don’t go, you have nowhere to go, I don’t want you to end up on the streets! You’ll lose your job, and then you’ll have to become a prostitute, stay here, I’ll take care of you—”

I shake her off at the entry. Grab my coat. “I don’t need you to take care of me.” I’m out the door in record time, shutting it right in her face, though the knob turns again the second I let it go. “And!” I say, as she opens the door, “At least if I become a prostitute, I’ll know how it feels to get fucked by someone other than you.”

Her mouth opens, wide enough to catch flies, and then I’m down the hallway, ignoring her screaming after me, because I know this courage isn’t going to stick around much longer.

The guilt starts to sink in the minute I get outside and pull on my coat. It’s snowing, fat flakes sifting down from the sky; there’s already a thin carpet of white on the sidewalk in front of the apartment. It wasn’t nice to say that last thing to her. I should apologize for that, later. Also, I’d been kind of stupid, and now I’m outside, by the street, and I have no idea where to go.

 _Fuck, I’m such an idiot_ , I think, torn between crying and laughing. What did I think was going to happen after I left? I’m probably going to have to stay at a hotel, now, for the rest of my time here. Or, what, I could show up at Rachel’s place and be like, _Hey, remember when you invited me over last month? Does that still hold, even if we’re not talking? Also, my mom destroyed your Christmas present to me. Sorry. Hope the Swarovski I gave you is in better shape._

Fuck. I feel a freezing tear track its way down my cheek, and I swear and scrub it away roughly before anyone can see, though there aren’t many people out right now. I cross the slushy road, a car honking at me even though it’s _ages_ away, and take refuge in a bus stop. An ashy old lady whom I’ve never seen before looks at me balefully from where she’s set herself up on the bench and I decide to insinuate myself in the opposite corner so I don’t get shanked.

I wheel my suitcase around so I can sit on it, loosening my death grip on my phone. When I flip it over, I see Bryce’s handwriting on my palm, the numbers slightly smudged but not washed off from this afternoon, when he’d rewritten them after I’d admitted that I still hadn’t gotten my phone back from my mom, because I was a pathetic loser. Well, I didn’t say that last bit.

I blink at it for a second. Then, not really sure what I’m doing, and before I can think too hard about it and freak myself out, I’m typing Bryce’s number into my keypad and pressing _Call_. I feel vaguely stupid— _What am I doing?_ —but I bring the phone to my ear.

The phone’s in the middle of its first ring when he picks up. “Hel-lo, this is Bryce Qiao.”

Warmth rushes to my cheeks at the sound of his voice—it’s probably the only warmth in my body, fuck, I’m going to freeze to death out here. “Um, hi. —This is, uh, S.J.”

“Hi, S.J.!” I hear the clank of something in the background, like he’s moving stuff around. “What’s up? You haven’t murdered anyone, right? Ha-ha, that would be ridiculous. I literally saw you two hours ago.”

“Um.” I turn my head and look outside the bus stop. Snow is piling up after a month of nothing; the scenery is pretty and white. “I kind of… had a fight with my mom.”

“Oh, shit. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I—um—maybe? But, like, not now? I’m kind of outside.”

“Outside? Why are you outside?”

I swear my voice has never been quieter. “I kind of… left?”

“You left?” repeats Bryce. “Your mom’s apartment? Dude, where are you right now? Like, location-wise; don’t just say ‘outside’ again or I think I’ll be obligated to smack you just a little with a pillow or something.”

“I’m at the bus stop across from her apartment.”

“What, are you planning on running away to Sacramento?” he asks, but the joke comes out a little strained. “Stay there, I’ll come get you. No, wait. Is there somewhere warm and indoors where you could wait?”

“I think there’s a strip mall a couple blocks away?”

“Okay, great, go there. I think I have your mom’s address saved on Google Maps still…”

“Um, you don’t have to—” _do anything—_

“And leave you to freeze to death in the middle of a state where you don’t live? That would just be rude manners! I know New Yorkers are bitchy, but here we’re Minnesota-nice. Ugh, gross,” he says. “I just felt the True Cringe saying that. I can’t believe I’m turning into one of _those_ people.”

I can’t help the faint giggle that comes out of my mouth.

“So, are you walking to the strip mall yet?” Bryce asks. I hear a door slam shut. “Y’know, so you don’t freeze? I think it’s, like, ten degrees out, dude. You’re wearing a coat, right?”

“Um, no. —Yes. I’m going right now. And yes, I’m wearing a coat.” I have to drag my suitcase out from behind me. The woman in the bus stop doesn’t even give me a second glance as I leave.

“Awesome! This is a cold state in the winter, but we don’t condone popsicle people. I don’t, anyway. They’re not as fun to suck as actual popsicles, y’know?”

My cheeks are freezing but I still manage to snort a laugh. “Are you driving?”

“Yep!” says Bryce cheerfully. “I love driving on snow. I can finally see how well my brakes _really_ work.”

“That’s, um, a bit worrying,” I say, but I’m smiling as I trudge through the thin snow, imagining him running stop signs and red lights. “As an employee of the government, I feel obligated to tell you to obey the law.”

“Laws are overrated. Besides, you won’t tell on me,” Bryce says, and we keep going on this tangent as I make my way to the strip mall that looms, beige and sprawling, in the distance, and while he skids away on 35W.

He finds me in Caribou Coffee after instructing me to buy myself something hot and hanging up, an order I sort of appreciate because it’s the kind of thing I never would’ve thought of doing for myself. It’s nice to feel the warmth of something against my skin, even if it is just coffee. I’m not even that self-conscious about toting a suitcase into a café, because nobody else is here except the girl behind the counter.

“Heyo,” he says, knuckles rapping at the table to alert me of his presence, because I’m busy staring into my cup like a diviner. I look up. Blush. That’s practically standard practice now, every time I see him, and it’s horrible. Stupid skin and stupid blood.

Bryce’s cheeks are a bit pink from the trek from his car to the mall, but he looks warmer than me, in a black trench coat and a dark red scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Hi,” I say. “Um, you really didn’t need to come or anything, I can probably figure out a hotel or something…”

“No sweat,” says Bryce, pulling out a chair. His hair’s going every which way, like he’d been in a bit of a hurry, which he probably had been, but it doesn’t look any less good on him. I don’t think it’s _possible_ for him to look bad. “I can drive you around, if you want. Personal chauffer, at your service. My car is definitely better than a bus. Less dirty; only people with nice butts are allowed in my car.”

I flush at this. I don’t know why, so I just say, “I hope I wasn’t bothering you or… interrupting something?”

“Not at all. I was nearby anyway. My spare bed—” he looks at me, “—needs some new sheets. I got bored of looking at all that green every time I passed in the hall.”

“Oh. Um, that’s nice. That you got new sheets, that is. What colour are they?”

He waggles his eyebrows and grins. “It’s a secret. You’ll have to come over and find out.”

Before I even have to unpack what _that_ might mean, we’re interrupted by the Caribou employee. “Excuse me,” she says. “Just wanted to let you know we’re closing in a couple minutes.”

“Oh.” I stand up abruptly, almost spilling the coffee that I’ve barely drunk. “We can, um, leave.”

Bryce gets up, much less harried. “So, do you know where you’re going to stay? Got any lovely, five-star hotels in mind, Mr Actuary?”

I snort—and blush, obviously—and trail him out of the café with my suitcase. “I’ll probably just stay at a Holiday Inn or something. You know, somewhere where weird butts have been.”

He snickers. He looks like a work of chiaroscuro in the parking lot lamplight, all shadows and lines. I want to touch him and see if he’d feel as sharp as he looks.

“I can’t imagine that’ll be very comfortable.” He wrinkles his nose, kicking a chunk of slush.

“What, the Holiday Inn? Have you been to one?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t great.” He glances at me. “Sucky mattresses. Not as good as mine.”

I squint at him, because… what does that mean? “Or, um…” I look at him, trying to read his expression through the whirling snow, desperately hoping I’m not being _weird_. “If it’s okay, I could… stay at… yours?”

“Oh thank god,” Bryce bursts out, cheering up immensely. “I thought you’d never ask and that it’d be way weird to just offer. I was starting to feel terrible about the idea of leaving you alone in a hotel for the next approximate week. What would you have _done_?”

A weak, relieved laugh bubbles out of my chest. _He doesn’t think I’m crazy or clingy. Is it clingy to want to stay with him? I like him. He’s so easy to talk to._ “Um, played a lot of solitaire?”

He snorts. “I hate solitaire. You know those times when you’re playing it _fine_ , but the cards are laid out shitty and you just can’t win?”

I huff, amused. “ _Someone_ sounds a little frustrated at the solitaire app on their computer.”

“Shut up,” Bryce says, without any real heat, kicking a little clump of snow at me. “Here, I’ll tell you a secret. Sometimes, when I’m bored but don’t feel like really doing anything, I’ll load it up and just click on cards until they work. I don’t even have to put any brainpower into it.”

“Scandalous,” I faux-gasp. “Don’t ever let the Vegas croupiers hear you say that.”

“Of course not!” he gasps, unlocking his car, popping the trunk. “They’d never let me back in the casinos.”

I laugh as I shake off the snow from my suitcase wheels and bundle it in his trunk, clamber into the front seat; he grins at me. For the first time since returning to Minnesota this year, the background weight of existential dread lifts from my shoulders, and I think that things might actually end up alright.


	12. The fourth day of Christmas // Bryce

“S.J.?”

He yelps and leaps around from where he’d been kneeling on top of the dryer, his ass in the air as he bent over trying to… get something behind it.

“What are you doing?”

He blushes and scrambles off the dryer. “Nothing.”

“What’s back there?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” He puts his hand on my back and pushes me back toward the stairs.

I dig my heels in a bit, to make him work for it. “You don’t have to clean as rent, you know,” I say. For the millionth time today.

“I wasn’t cleaning.”

“There’s a Swiffer in your hand.”

“There _isn’t_ ,” he insists, chucking the Swiffer behind a corner while he tries to shove me up the stairs. This is a literal uphill battle, because I don’t want to go upstairs. I want to stay with him; watch him. He’s eye candy of the highest caliber, even when he’s got his bangs yanked up into a tiny ponytail over his forehead to keep them out of his eyes, his hair held by a black band that’s one of the few reminders from when I’d had long hair.

“You were on the dryer.”

“You’re hallucinating,” he says, _definitely_ way sassier than I remember him being.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Somehow, he gets me up _one_ step by pure tenaciousness.

“Okay.” I cede that fight, because in this regard, he’s like the twins, and we would’ve kept going for hours. “Dinner’s ready, just wanted you to know.”

It’s adorable the way he perks up with a single-minded focus, as if his mother hadn’t been feeding him or something. Considering the amount he’d eaten when we’d gotten back last night this morning, and this afternoon, I’m prepared to bargain that she hadn’t been; I’m going to have to go out for groceries tomorrow.

“Why are you down here, then?” he asks, shoving me up another step.

“I wanted to come get you. Didn’t want to be the bitch that ate all the hot food and then left the cold leftovers on the table for you. That’s some Cinderella’s-stepfamily level of host horribleness.”

He covers his mouth with a hand as he chuckles. Then, as if he’s remembering the ponytail and is suddenly self-conscious about it, he yanks out the hair tie, snapping it around his thin wrist, brown fringe tumbling back into his eyes.

“Come on then.” He gives up on pushing me and launches himself up the stairs: he must not fully think about whether he’s trying to go up one-by-one or two-by-two because he trips, yelps, and catches himself with his hands before he can brain himself, scrambling back upright in less than a second. “You didn’t see that,” he mutters.

“See what?” I race him up the stairs (he wins); when he gets to the kitchen, he glances around, bird-like, as if he’s looking for more things to clean, and there _aren’t_ any more things to clean: I have washed and dried most everything that I’ve used for cooking already, _specifically_ so he can’t.

The most annoying thing is that half the time, I can’t even easily _tell_ that he’s cleaned. He’s not one of those annoying organize-while-they-clean people, like _Michael_ , who always gets these ideas in his head about where my stuff should be _really_ : so far S.J.’s just taken things, scrubbed them until they sparkled, and put them back exactly where he found them. It’s vaguely unsettling, because I can _feel_ that something’s different about my house, but I can’t _tell_ until, for example, I’d stared really hard at my oven this morning after putting croissants in for breakfast and wondered how the hell I could suddenly see through the glass window when I was pretty sure water stains had blocked the view for the past three years; or when I’d woken up this morning and gone into the shower, and when I got out, my bed was made, and I’ve never made a bed in my life. I’d thought I was going insane until I walked him in the guest bathroom this afternoon, doing calisthenics while scrubbing the shit out of the tub.

I feel horrible that he thinks he needs to work to stay here, like he’s a bother or something; also, my parents have pretty firmly ingrained in me that guests should never work, so my stress levels are shooting through the roof because in between emailing my agent, I’m trying to get him not to clean and he’s absolutely refusing to listen (in the most polite way possible) and it’s like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

“What’s this?”

“Uh, _gu lou yuk_. It’s pork with sweet and sour sauce.” I hand him a plate from the cupboard. “Rice is in the rice cooker. Obviously, have however much you want.”

I let him go at it first, leaning my hip against the counter. He scoops out a mound of fluffy white rice and glances at me right after, like I’m going to yell at him.

“As much as you want,” I repeat, because he’s been like this ever since he got here, and I’m starting to want to punch whoever’s been starving him or telling him he couldn’t have as much as he wanted.

“Okay.” He adds, like, half a scoop to his plate. “I can… have more later? If I want?”

“Yeah, dude, ’course,” I say, and he looks at me like I’ve just saved the turtles or something and then makes a beeline straight for the wok. He has to put his plate down to figure out how to use the spatula to scoop the pork onto his plate, because the wok wants to wobble if it isn’t held.

“There’s broccoli in the pot right there,” I say, gesturing with my chin as I dump rice on my own plate; he switches attention with laser-like focus.

By the time we sit down, he’s practically twitching, but he manages to stop just for a second to incline his head over the food and sniff delicately, like a kitten. Then, satisfied, he starts inhaling everything on his plate at a speed that makes me slightly worried that he’s going to choke.

“You’re really good at cooking,” he mumbles, halfway through his plate already; though he’s eating fast, he barely makes a sound other than the click of utensils on porcelain.

I huff a laugh. “I’m not that good. I just picked up some stuff from Dad when I was at law school and realized I couldn’t survive off ramen forever.”

He turns red and glances away, gaze skittering across the room. “You’re a lawyer, too?”

I snort, turning back to my food. “No. I got my LLM and spent, like, two years in an office surrounded by monkeys wearing suits before my best friend fucked off for Japan and then suddenly I found myself unable to cope with the pure boredom anymore, so I quit. Maybe I’ll go back to it when I get old and gray and my face doesn’t make me money anymore, but for now, I’m enjoying modelling. It’s fun, I get to meet new people, travel…” I waggle my eyebrows at him. “I’ve been to New York.”

At this simple fact, a bright, excited light that I’ve never seen before ignites in his eyes. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah. It was busier than I expected, but not horrible. I thought I might hate it because I don’t like Chicago and all its stone buildings, but I guess New York had _just_ enough glass to soothe the claustrophobia.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah, I don’t really like Chicago either. I love New York, though. It’s, like, there’s so many people there that even when you feel like you’re alone, you’re not really alone, and when you’re down, you can kind of feed off of their energy instead of needing to find your own. You know?”

“Yeah,” I say, watching his bent head as he stares at the table, the way his hair falls in uneven tufts, like he cuts it himself. It’s unfairly endearing.

“Yeah.” He glances up, sees me looking at him, and looks away. “I just… no offense to Minnesota—” he laughs a bit roughly, “—but I kind of hate it here. It’s just so… boring. Like, nothing to do? And the Cities give me a weird vibe. I guess I don’t like all the old-school brick buildings, kind of like you, ha-ha. Though, that’s probably a terrible thing for me to say, because you know, the birds.”

“As much as I hate to say it, I think the birds are fucked, man,” I say. “Have you seen the U.S. Bank Stadium?”

He grimaces, which I take as a _yes_. “And, um, like, glass cities? Like Calgary?”

“Noted, but you’re on thin ice pointing out the flaws of Calgary, because that’s my favorite place.” I point at him and he manages to summon a look of chagrin.

“Is it?”

“One hundred percent. As much as I appreciate Minnesota, the Chinese food there is _way_ better. The _dim sum_ there? I would kill for it. _So_ much better than anything in Minnesota.”

A smile slips onto his face. “Do you go often?”

“Every couple of summers. We—my family’s got _more_ family up there, so sometimes when the kids are on break we all pile onto a plane and fly over for a month or three. Do you vacation anywhere?”

“Ah, not really. I mostly just work.” He laughs self-deprecatingly.

“Oh no,” I say, “you’re like Michael.”

“Who’s Michael?”

“The aforementioned best friend who bailed on me for Japan. I’ve known him since middle school. He never used to do anything but work, and then he dated Lucky for a while—one of my other friends—and was fun for a bit, but then they broke up, and now he’s boring again and also bitchy all the time, on top of that. Michael, that is, not Lucky. Lucky’s great. He’s got that crackhead energy, you know?”

“Oh, um.” S.J. looks a little stricken at this, though he’s also looking at my plate with a look of extreme longing. I glance at his—empty—one.

“Do you want more?”

“Uhhh…” he stares for a moment more, then looks up at me like a hopeful little puppy. “Can I?”

“Yeah, dude.”

He just sits there for a sec, like he’s going through a war with his own mind, but I don’t push. A second later, he gets up jerkily, muttering “Thanks” and “Sorry,” consecutively.

He sits down with another plate and still manages to finish before me, though he stays at the table and watches me eat, declining thirds, and I have to slow down in order to formulate a plan to get him out of the kitchen before he can even dream of getting up and putting the food away and doing all the dishes.

“So,” I say. “I’m curious, and excuse me if I’m prying, but did your mom ever feed you?”

Color rushes to his cheeks. “Yeah. She did. She’s been getting into cooking. Um, your mum is teaching mine to cook. But she…” he glances around like he might be caught, “…she’s not really good at it. Um! My mum, that is. Not yours. I’m sure yours is great.”

“She’s pretty good,” I say, grinning. “She’s certainly not as egotistical about it as Dad.”

He does this little thing that’s like… a tiny aborted eye-roll paired with a small smile that is _absolutely adorable_. “I think your dad’s pretty cool.”

“He _is_ pretty cool,” I say. “I’m allowed shit on him sometimes, though, ’cause I grew up with him. But… sounds like my mom’s teaching isn’t going so well with your mom?”

“Not really. I would bring back, like, McDonald’s? Because I couldn’t eat it. Her food. Which probably makes me a terrible son. She’d eat it all the time, though? Her food? So I think something’s wrong with me?”

“Maybe you just have different tastes or different standards. That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you. Also, as my father’s son, I can say that there’s nothing wrong if you like everything he cooks, because my dad is a great cook, only don’t tell him I said that, because he’d never be able to control his ego ever again.”

He covers his mouth with a hand, laughing, his eyes crinkling up. “Um, yes. I really like his food. It’s very good. Um, yours is, too.”

I can kind of get why Dad likes the trip of someone praising his food, if the fuzzy warmth that unfurls in my stomach every time S.J. compliments me is any indication of how Dad might feel.

“Yeah? Going back a little in the conversation, though, you don’t really look like you eat fast food for every meal.” _Because as a way-overgeneralized stereotype, those people usually tend to be overweight. And you look like you might be a hundred and twenty, soaking wet. And you’re, like, six feet tall (when you stand up straight). That can’t be healthy._

“I just don’t really eat a lot? I’m not supposed to. I used to be… um.” His eyes are fixed across the kitchen. He laughs, suddenly. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Um, I used to be… kind of… fat? Mum said I should probably be eating less, so I… did? Because I kind of was. Fat. But I guess I have really bad self-control when proper food is involved even though sometimes I feel sick after. Sorry for eating so much. You should stop me.”

I don’t have the chance to open my mouth to say anything to counteract _that_ , because he scrambles for his phone, still going.

“I have, um, pictures?” He does something for a second and then slides his phone across the table. He must’ve redownloaded all his stuff since the fight he had with his mom, because I see a photo of him on-screen, younger and in a graduation gown, smiling nervously in front of an unfamiliar house, looking… not… overweight. At all. Or maybe I’m not seeing it well because he’s in a loose gown?

Maybe he can read my thoughts, because he goes, “That’s probably a bad picture,” and then reaches across the table to swipe over a bunch of times, speeding through a bunch of NYC skyline shots, some pretty flowers beside what looks like a nature trail, a girl. Stops on what looks like him at a work party; he’s formally dressed and in the company of a black woman with a killer afro in a killer suit and an older man with gray hair. They’re holding champagne glasses, and maybe it had been a clandestine shot: they’re all looking at each other, and S.J.’s standing up straight and has got an easy smile on his face—a smile I haven’t yet seen on him in person—like he’s enjoying himself.

“Uh, hate to break it to you, dude, but you look fine. Great, even.”

He flushes. “Um, that was from a couple years ago,” he says, as if this is an explanation for something.

“And?”

“Um. I was. Kind of… fatter?”

“You literally look pretty much the same as you do now,” I say, squinting at the photo again, then squinting up at him. I don’t think my eyesight or my contacts are so bad that I can’t tell what I’m looking at.

“It’s probably a bad picture,” he says, fumbling.

“Dude, if this day is going to end in you showing me every single picture of you while you try to find one that’s ‘good,’ bring it on. I could stare at you all day.”

If possible, he gets redder. “I don’t want to waste your time like that.”

“Trust me,” I say, “it would be _anything_ but a waste of my time. I can give you a verdict on how fabulous you look in each photo. This one?” I point to the work party. “One hundred out of ten. Would smash.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of him, too sudden for him to cover his mouth, and I see the perfect crescent of his smile. “Um, what about my graduation photo?”

“Go back to it.”

Obligingly, he swipes, and I peer at his phone again: take in the buzzed cut of his hair that makes his ears stick out (what a youthful photo) and the hesitant crinkle of his eyes.

“Ninety-two out of ten. Can’t say would smash, though, because I don’t smash minors.”

He _pouts_. “I wasn’t a minor. I was eighteen.”

I stare at him. “Do you _want_ me to say I would smash?”

“You’re the one who started it. Also, why did the number go down?”

I’m past staring, I think, and into gaping. I have to get ahold of myself and I flounder for a second. “Don’t take this to heart, but I like your hair a little longer. Give something the ladies to hang onto, you know?”

“You’re a lady?”

I choke, at that, because is he… _flirting_ with me? He doesn’t look particularly seductive, so I have to wonder if I’m hallucinating while I deal with the panic of _what to say_ because I’m _never_ this tongue-tied around anybody.

Before I can say anything, though, he blushes and glances away. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you didn’t like what my mum said to you on Christmas. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s alright,” I manage. “I’m not that sensitively-souled. Say what you wish of me, O sir.”

The corners of his lips curl into a grin. “Okay, but would you smash? If you were eighteen?”

I try to decipher his expression, then figure, _fuck it_. I can probably poke at him _a little_ , right? The worst thing he’s done so far is turned into a tomato, not spouted homophobic bullshit. Also, he’s literally asking me a _gay question_. “Hm, probably not. At eighteen I was drowning in college. Too busy to smash people.”

He narrows his eyes a little, and I gotta say, that look on him? Da- _yum_. “What if you _weren’t_?”

“Like, if I hadn’t been in college?” I lean back in my chair and bat my eyes innocently at him. “I’d probably be on the street. Y’know, Asian parents and all that. I’d be super busy whoring myself out to afford peanut butter sandwiches and a cardboard sign to advertise me whoring myself out.”

“Bryce!”

“What?” I’m grinning, but I can’t help it.

He growls.

_Growls._

“Maybe if I was eighteen,” I muse (because _fuck_ , that’s sexy), “and if I hadn’t skipped in any grades and was thus graduating at the same time as you, I would smash.”

He apparently deems this satisfactory because he stops looking like he might murder me, though that face is unfairly hot and I could stand to stare at it some more. His expression turns into something still and calculating like he’s sizing me up, and my blood goes hot. I have to yell at myself that nothing is happening here—and nothing is _going_ to happen—so I don’t get an erection at the _fucking dinner table_.

Shit, this guy is going to kill me, isn’t he?


	13. The fifth day of Christmas // S.J.

“…and I don’t even know why I was so angry, I hadn’t even read the book yet. Maybe I wanted a reminder of Rachel, but it hasn’t actually been horrible without her? I’m not missing anything, not talking to her. I can’t even remember what we used to talk about. Were we even that good friends, or if I was just projecting because I was lonely? I don’t know if I’m projecting _right now_ because I’m lonely.” I blink, trying to figure out what I’m rambling about; I think I’ve been going on, on this vein, for a long time. Then I turn my head on his shoulder and squint at him. Even though he’s mostly solemn, he’s still grinning a bit. “You got me drunk again!”

“I did not!” he said, offended at the accusation. “I _asked_ if you wanted more rum, and you said yes! You can _say_ no, you know. Besides, it’s not like I’ve given you enough to kill you or something. You’ve barely had three drinks. I’m starting to think you’re a lightweight.”

“I’m not a lightweight.” I mash myself back into his side, not actually that grumpy. His fingers are dragging up and down the side of my arm, which is really nice, so I don’t _really_ have anything to complain about. “I just don’t drink very often. Or, like, at all before I came here. To Minnesota, not your house. Y’know, just to clarify, so you don’t feel bad about turning me into a drunkard.” I blush. “I’m talking too much,” I say. “Sorry. That’s probably really annoying. I’ll shut up if you tell me to.”

“I like listening to you talk,” Bryce says. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Everyone says it’s _exotic_. I hate it when they say that. I’m not a zoo animal.”

He laughs. “I know the feeling. I get called exotic all the time, too. I wish I could punch people who call me that without getting the cops called on me for being a large, aggressive person of colour.”

“I mean, like, you can probably actually punch people,” I point out. “You have muscles. I’d probably hit someone and hurt my hand more than their face.”

He tips his head back and laughs; I watch the bob of his throat, inordinately pleased. “It’s probably more what you _do_ with the muscles, rather than whether or not you have them,” he says.

“That’s because you’ve never seen me hit something,” I grumble.

“Do you _want_ to hit something?”

“No,” I admit. “I don’t like it when people hit things. It reminds me of Dad. He used to hit Mum a lot when I was younger. It got better when I was older because they didn’t really spend so much time together, and then he took me to London and he couldn’t hit her, because they were four thousand miles apart. That was why I left. He didn’t tell me we were going to London. I thought we were going on a field trip. What field trip needs you to get on a plane? I don’t know, I was really stupid back then. But, that’s why I left. Sorry if you missed me on the first day of seventh grade and I wasn’t there or anything. I guess I didn’t really get the chance to say good-bye.”

He looks at me, head tilted, an unreadable look on his face. “I guess not.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t think I’d be gone for five years. Y’know. And then… you weren’t in high school.”

“No. I skipped a couple of grades. Courtesy of my Asian parents, you know?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And then Dad pressured me into taking twenty credits a semester so I could graduate college a year early, so I would’ve been… on my last year by the time you came in as a freshman.”

“Oh. Yeah. Probably. Where did you go?”

“NYU.”

“Wait.” I sit up. “I went to NYU too.”

“Oh, shit.” He laughs, eyes lighting up. “What class?”

I rattle off the year.

“Ah yeah, see, I was three years before that.”

“I never saw you there,” I say.

“Dude, I was taking _twenty credits a semester_. When I wasn’t in class, I was in the library chugging coffee made with Redbull instead of water. I think I slept a grand total of six hours the entire three years I was there.”

“Why’d you do it, then?”

He snorts. “My dad wanted me to. He had high expectations and I was stupid and wanted to please my parents because they didn’t exactly think it was _great_ when I came out. You know the feeling? About the pleasing bit.”

“Um, yeah. A bit, with my dad. I liked him a bit better than Mum, because he wasn’t as demanding. When he was in a good mood, he let me do whatever I wanted as long as I wasn’t… too girly or anything. He’d hit me when I was. Not, um, _hard_ —” I say, hurrying up my mouth because I can feel Bryce stiffening in discontent, “—it wasn’t that bad. Anyway, he’s in prison now.”

“Why?” says Bryce, sounding mildly pissed. “Because he hurt you?”

“He, um, never actually hit me that often. Not as much as Mum. But he stabbed Mum last year, and she finally dumped him for good.”

“I very much hate that you had to go through that,” says Bryce, his voice dangerously pleasant.

“It’s not your fault,” I reassure him. “And… I don’t know. I’m probably a terrible person for saying this, but…” _Mum probably deserved it? Like, I don’t know what their fight was about, but she’s always been a bit psychotic, especially with Dad._ I feel disgusting for thinking that. She’s the woman who raised me. “…. Never mind.”

I can _feel_ him looking at me, his gaze like a warm, weighted blanket. “What?”

“No, I don’t want to condemn myself to Hell so easily. I won’t say. I’ll have to go to Hell some other way.”

He laughs, and his hand smooths down my side under my ribs. I move my arm out of the way because that’s _really_ nice. Then his hand crawls around to slip under my shirt and the tips of his fingers scrape gently against the skin of my back, and I’m about to pass out with how wonderful it feels.

“What other things can a really good guy like you go to Hell for?”

“Ugh, I’m not that good,” I say, but I’m already flushing, warmth crawling down my throat to pool in my stomach. “I think about weird things all day.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Um, just… weird stuff. Really weird.”

“You can’t just say _really weird_ and not dish,” says Bryce, sounding petulant. His hand creeps around so that his fingers can circle, languorously, around my bellybutton; I shiver and bury my face in his shirt before I can start whimpering from how great it feels. I think I’m sitting on this couch way wrong. I think I’m _sitting_ wrong. I’m practically in his lap. That has to be indecent, right? But also, he’s not, um, complaining? I try to be embarrassed, but the emotion is currently unfamiliar and I can’t muster it.

“Fine,” I say. “Tell me a weird thought _you_ have.”

“Easy,” he says. “One time, I had a hookup over, we were both really drunk so we didn’t use condoms and after, I thought about felching him before I realized that I’m not so trashy that I’m going to suck my come out of this guy’s asshole like he’s a human straw.”

_What—?!_

“Oh, fuck,” he says, grimacing and putting his hands over my ears. I hear, muffled, “I forgot. Pretend you didn’t hear that. I think I might be a little drunk, too.”

“I can’t,” I say, horrified, trying to reconcile _that_ Bryce with the Bryce in front of me who’s looking a little regretful and a lot debonair and not at _all_ like someone who might, um, _do that_?! “That’s _gross_!”

“That’s why I didn’t do it,” he says. “Also, I never said that. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can’t take it back,” I say. “It’s out there. Also, get your hands off my ears and back where they were. I didn’t tell you to stop touching me.”

“Fuck, you’re bossy,” he mutters, but he does as told. I hum in pleasure, eyes slipping shut. “Okay, your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“A weird thought. Don’t think you can get out of this. I will keep nagging you.”

“Fine,” I snap. “Sometimes I think about what vagina tastes like.”

“That isn’t actually a weird thought. I bet a ton of people think about that.”

“Oh yeah? Like who?”

“Lesbians. Straight men. _Anyone_ attracted to someone with a vagina. Writers, because they’re always thinking about weird shit.”

“And you don’t think other gay people think about ‘human straws’?”

He puts a big hand over my mouth, the warmth of his skin bleeding onto my lips, which are suddenly way too sensitive for some reason. My lips have never been sensitive before. “Your talking privileges are revoked. You’re too sassy. I need to stop giving you alcohol. It just makes it worse.”

I lick his palm.

“Augh!” He yanks it away and looks at it with comic surprise, like this was never a potential outcome when he decided to put his _hand_ on my _mouth_.

“You deserved that,” I said.

“I did _not_!” He retaliates against my rebellion by attempting to wipe his wet hand on my shirt; I shriek and scramble away across the couch, but he gets it on my slacks. I end up splayed across the couch, my head on the other arm of the sofa. One of my feet is jammed under his butt; my other leg slips off the cushion onto the floor.

His gaze turns sharp and full of _something else_ that makes my skin prickle with heat; a second later, a _devilish_ grin spreads across his face. That absolutely does not bode well, because I know Bryce is a huge fan of pranks, and I hastily start trying to get off the couch so I can run away from him, but he wraps one hand around my ankle like it’s just _that easy_ to keep me in place.

“Are you ticklish?”

“NO!” I yell, frantic and giggling, but his grip is iron and he’s already pounced.

I howl as he runs his hands up my sides, slipping off the couch entirely, and I think he falls off too because he’s on top of me, but I can’t pay attention; I’m busy trying to curl up into a pillbug because I’m _dying_.

“Stop, stop!” I wail, flailing and trying to escape. “Bryce! Stop!”

He halts while I wheeze, sitting on my hips, his arms buried up my shirt, hands warm, gripping my ribs, his thumbs _very_ close to my nipples. He’s grinning like a cat who’s gotten the cream, his eyes twinkling. “Are your armpits ticklish, too?”

“Bryce—” I say, because I can feel his fingers starting to twitch. “—Bryce, I’m serious, I’m so serious, if you tickle me anymore, I am going to _kick you in the balls_.”

“Not the family heirlooms!” he gasps, but he rolls off me, smirking, somehow nearly taking my shirt with, and when I sit up, I have to yank it back down to look somewhat presentable. When I look up, he’s sprawled back against the couch, his arms spread over the cushions. Still grinning.

“What?”

“Weird thought, buddy,” he says. “It’s your turn still.”

I flush. “What do I get if I share a weird thought?”

“The catharsis of saying it aloud.”

“That sounds lame.”

“You’re waffling around so much, I bet it’s going to be something great. Spill, Fernby.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He slithers forwards like a snake, and also like he has no bones. “What do you need me to do, lay on you so you feel the comfort and companionship of descending into Hell with another sinning soul?”

Before I can squawk, he shoves me onto the floor and flumps down on me, driving the breath from my lungs.

“See, isn’t this nice?” he asks. His breath tickles my neck.

“I can’t breathe,” I say, which is kind of a truth and kind of a lie: it’s difficult to inhale, yeah, but it feels nice at the same time. Like being protected.

“Truth time, bitch.” His hands rub up my waist gently; I’d been ticklish when he’d been rougher, but he’s so gentle now that I’m shuddering, and this is tragically what loosens my lips.

“Sometimes I think about touching you. Like, when I saw you coming out of your bathroom that one time when I was dusting your room? You had a towel around your waist and you weren’t all the way dry, so there was water kind of dripping all over your chest and I wanted to lick you,” I say, horrified with what’s coming out of my mouth, but I _can’t stop_. “I’m _so_ going to Hell for that. It’s not even because it’s kind of a gay thought, but just the _thought_ is so fucking weird, and also, is it just me, and should I go to a psych ward, or do you ever get weird thoughts like that? Like, about licking things? Like, um, people? Obviously, ignore the fact that I am a _person_.

“Also, I would like more rum now. Like, a lot of it. Possibly the entire bottle, so I can wake up tomorrow and not remember anything of what I’ve just said. Or so I can just not wake up at all.”

“I don’t think I should give you more rum,” says Bryce sounding very strangled, “if you’re drunk enough to be saying _that_.” He’s tensed; I’m sure he’s looking at me funny, because who _admits_ to that kind of stuff? _Willingly_? Am I so easy that I have one drink and I start forgetting about everything I’ve been taught as a child?

 _Looks like my wife raised a whore for a son_ , my dad would say. _I should’ve taken you away from her sooner so you didn’t turn out damaged._

Oh, fuck, I think I might puke.

“Hey, S.J., dude. S.J.—”

 _Fuck, what’s wrong with me_ —

“Hey,” Bryce says, and then he’s rolled off me to sit up and pull me to his chest—I don’t know how he can stand to hug me when I’ve just told him how creepy I am. His hands stroke up and down my back, the fabric of my shirt bunching when he moves; I hope I’m not _crying_ , that would just add to the humiliation. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to say that—”

“It’s fine,” he says. “Listen, dude, you’re drunk, I get it. I’m not judging, I promise.”

An unattractive laugh makes its way out of my mouth. I still definitely want to die. “Really weird, like I said. You can probably, um, kick me out now.”

“What? Why?” He’s frowning.

“Because I’m weird and creepy?”

He’s quiet for a moment. I can feel his chest moving, up and down, and his shoulders too, a little bit, because my chin is hooked over them.

“I don’t think it’s weird and creepy,” he says at last. “I think that sexuality’s a spectrum, and it’s okay to have questioning thoughts, even if you think that you’re definitely in one camp and not the other. And even if you _are_ firmly in one camp, it’s still fine: it doesn’t _have_ to mean you’re gay if you have those thoughts about guys. Yeah? You’re the only person who gets to decide who you are and what you want to do with yourself.”

“How is it so _easy_ for you?”

He laughs softly. “What’s easy?”

“Like, knowing who you are.” I feel gross about feeling a bit better, because I’m not _supposed_ to feel better after freaking out; I’m supposed to be stressing about this more. Why am I malfunctioning?

He snorts. “I didn’t always know. What you’re seeing is the confidence of a man who’s gone to therapy since he was eighteen.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Definitely would recommend.” He definitely sounds a bit like he’s hinting at something, and I don’t know if I should be offended or not that he thinks I should… do that?

“Therapy’s for sick people. I’m not sick.”

“Therapy is _not_ for sick people,” said Bryce, sounding offended. “Am I sick?”

“No,” I mutter, and I swear he _purrs_. “I’m not sick, though, either.”

“You’re not,” he agrees. “Sometimes people just need someone else to talk to. Sometimes they want to work out a problem with someone who isn’t a friend. Sometimes they want some advice on how to cope with things like anxiety and depression. But it’s not _exclusively_ a thing for people with mental health issues.”

“You sound like a pamphlet for ‘why people should go to a therapist,’” I say, and he laughs.

“I think if everyone went to a therapist, the world would be such a better place.”

“Do you?”

“Mhm. And, obviously, I’m not going to force you to do anything, but you’re gonna go back to New York eventually and, tragic as it is, I’m not going to be there for you to talk to all the time. And, as an advocate for good mental health, I would be very pleased if you thought about it, knowing you had someone to help you with all your shit, because you don’t have to go through life alone, you know?.”

“I should bring you back with me instead,” I mutter, burying my nose in his shirt and breathing in; his scent prickles pleasingly in my nose.

He laughs, leaning back against the couch; I shift so I don’t have to let go of him, because… I don’t really want to. Call me pathetic.

“Would you?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I’m expensive,” he warns.

“I can tell,” I say, and he must hear the dry note of amusement in my voice, because he jostles me—not hard, but just enough to get us both laughing quietly. And though I’m still mortified about what I’ve said, this is most comfortable I’ve ever been with someone else: so much so that I don’t even care that what we’re doing is probably just a bit gay.


	14. The sixth day of Christmas // Bryce

“ _Lucky_ ,” I hiss. “ _I don’t think you’re properly comprehending the severity of the situation_.”

On the other side of the line, Lucky sounds like he’s dying, sucking in great big gasps of air when he can pause his stupid laughing.

“ _Lucky_!”

“Oh. My. _God_ ,” he wheezes. “You called me to tell me you’re _cockblocked_? _That_ was what your ‘very important calls’ were about? I’m never picking up the phone _again_.”

“That is _not_ why I called you!” I whisper-yell into the phone, and hope that S.J. is nowhere near the fucking bathroom and also that he is partially deaf, so he never knows this conversation happened. “Thanks, also, for picking up my _hundredth_ call.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. Then dissolves into snickers, because he is the devil disguised in a five-foot-two package.

“ _Lucky_. Stop fucking laughing or I’m going to drive over to your place and run you over. Tell me what I’m supposed to _do_.”

“Oh god, Bryce, you know all those poor, poor guys who worshipped you and in return, you strung them along before tossing them out on their asses? And Fabian, who you cheated on? This is payback. _Karma_.”

“I’m going to hang up on you,” I threaten.

“No you won’t. _You_ called _me_.”

“Yes, and start making yourself _useful_. Or maybe I’ll remind Michael what your phone number is. You know, on the off-chance that he’s forgotten.”

He sobers up rather quickly, at that, and I can practically feel him glaring at me. “You _wouldn’t_.”

“Try me. I have his landline, work, and cell saved. I can contact him by pressing four buttons. Start talking.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“And I’m having a _crisis_.”

Lucky hangs up on me, and I have two seconds to stare at my phone in disbelief before an incoming call lights up the screen and a video pops up when I accept. Lucky’s propped up in his bathroom, against the toilet. I see that alcoholism has ruined another young life.

“That better have been a—”

He waves a hand lazily and puts his cheek on the toilet seat, closing his eyes, no longer smiling but still radiating smugness. “Explain to me your problem again?”

I look away from Lucky’s sad, hungover face and at my shower curtain, pacing back and forth in front of the toilet. “Okay, so: S.J. got kicked out of his mom’s place—well not really _kicked_ , per se, but he couldn’t really—”

“Who is S.J. again?”

“OH my god, it doesn’t matter, just let me fucking talk.”

“Ooo, Bryce, do you _like_ him?” Lucky’s eyes snap open and he waggles his eyebrows, grinning saucily.

I clutch my phone so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t fold right in two and glare at him. “Lucky. Shut. _Up_.”

Lucky’s eyebrows shoot up a little and the grin fades. “Wait. Holy fuck, do you—”

“LUCKY!” I yell.

A second later, there’s a light knock on the bathroom door. “Um, are you okay in there?”

“I’m _great_ ,” I tell S.J., not entirely sure that my voice doesn’t come out disgustingly hysterical.

“He’s shitting _so hard_!” yells Lucky at top volume, nearly making me go deaf. “So hard he needs me here for moral support!”

“I’ve got earbuds in.”

“Boo, you’re no fun.”

“Alright,” S.J. says, somewhat placated. “Are you, ah, on the phone?”

Right, so now I have two options: either become that one weird person who’ll only take a call in the bathroom, or admit that I’m someone who talks to themselves on the toilet. Neither are good prospects.

I settle for “Uh, yeah,” and that seems to sate his curiosity, because I don’t hear any more questions. I also don’t hear him leave, but I also hadn’t heard him _walk up_ , so I have no idea where he’s hanging around (he’s so _quiet_ all the time), and I briefly consider hiding in my shower before I mentally slap myself and tell my mind that _this is not what it has come to_.

“I’m not in fucking… _sixth grade_ , and neither are you,” I hiss at Lucky, as a distraction. He slants an amused look at me from where he’s making a pillow out of the toilet that suggests he might say otherwise, and I wish we were together so I can smack him, just a little bit.

“Okay, so if you don’t like him, what’s the problem?”

I avoid the fuck out of the first half of that sentence. “Have you never had someone _live_ with you, Lucky? I know you used to live at the UMN dorms, did you not have a _roommate_? He’s in my _guest bedroom_ , Lucky. _One wall_ away. And he’s so fucking polite, and he cleans all the time even though I tell him not to and he… ugh, he’s so _nice_ , and he likes cuddling, which is _fine_ , but I don’t even have time to go into _that_ —and I can’t just bring someone home and have sex with them when he’s _in my house_ , Lucky, I’m not that fucking rude, that would _kill_ him!” _Also, he fantasizes about me (?!), but we’re not going to go into that right now: that topic is more explosive than a ton of PETN; also, we are both ignoring what happened yesterday because I PHYSICALLY AM UNABLE TO BRING IT UP._ _DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I CANNOT BRING UP THIS SUBJECT. HOW WOULD I DO THAT!_

“You sound a bit stressed,” says Lucky. Unhelpfully.

“ _Do_ I?” I snarl. “Tell me _more_.”

Before he can go into details, he gags and lunges for the toilet; the phone slips and skews sideways. I lose vision of him for a few seconds—at least I don’t hear puking: just a couple of shaky, deep breaths before he reappears.

“Please don’t puke on the phone. That’d actually make me start feeling bad for you.”

He gives me a wry grin, folding an arm on the toilet seat and putting his head down again, eyes shutting. “You _should_ feel bad. Do you know how much effort I’m making just for this call? Do you know how scared I am of dropping my phone in the toilet? This is the only phone I have, Bryce.”

“You didn’t _have_ to FaceTime me.”

“Yes I did. Do. I need to see you squirm. Best cure on Earth.”

I scowl. “I’m not squirming.”

“Right. I forgot. You’re having a _crisis_.”

“Don’t you make fun of me, Lucky Sommers!”

“Whoops. Sorry, I thought slightly cynically mocking was our friendship’s natural state. So, what do you want from me? Advice? Go to someone else’s house and have sex if you can’t keep it in your pants. Voilà. Problem solved. I am _wonderful_. I should become Abby from _Dear Abby_.”

Problem _not_ solved, because that doesn’t fix the issue where, every time I look at S.J., I literally want to tear him to pieces and see what makes him scream. And not in an afraid way. In, like, a sexual way. A _very_ sexual way. The most sexual way possible, with clothes flying into corners of the room and stuff like that. And he might want me to? But I’m not sure. And that’s where the issue arises.

I pound my fist onto my hip so the pain will distract me from my dick. “Here’s the thing. I can’t do that.”

“What the fuck do you mean, you can’t do that? Did he put a collar around your neck and tie the leash to his hand? Ugh, wow, that sounds kinda hot. I should—”

“This isn’t about you!” I almost scream.

“Right, right. Sorry, I forgot. Right, this is about you and your constant insatiable horniness.”

“I’m sorry, do _you_ want to try two months going on three with just your right hand?”

“I’ve been living with just my right hand since my twenty-first birthday.” He makes a face at the memory.

“Okay, great. Excellent for you. I’ll Venmo you five bucks for being able to admit that—”

Lucky chuckles.

“—but _I_ am not _you_ , and I am also rapidly getting bored by said right hand.” _Also, I_ need _to go out and screw someone just so I can get him out of my_ fucking head _._

“Switch up lubes,” says Lucky. Then: “So why can’t you leave him alone? Is he not an adult? And fully physically capable of taking care of himself? It sounds like he cleans, and if he cleans, he’s probably not one of those people who’ll accidentally kill themselves if you go out for a couple hours.”

“It’s not that. Every time I go out, he gets this, like… kicked-puppy look on his face. Do you get it, Lucky? I can’t leave him alone when he looks at me like that! It’s like, I tell him I’m going to go get groceries and then he turns around and guess what? I guess I can’t fucking leave for groceries after all, not without taking him with! Or I tell him I’m going to run over to my parents’ place, and then guess what? Five minutes later he’s in the car with me, and we’re over there for hours, because my parents are in love with him. Also, he _snuggles_ with me—constantly. And asks me to _touch_ him, and—ugh, he’s so… ugh, fuckin’ sexy and he doesn’t _know_. Do you get it? _I’m getting no reprieve from this torture_!”

“Wow,” says Lucky. The phone’s slipped in his grip a little bit so half of his face isn’t on-screen, but I can still see his grin. “That sounds _horrible_.”

“It _is_ horrible,” I snap, before I realize he’s being sarcastic. “God, you suck. Why did I even call you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Ugh, Lucky, _please_ ,” I beg. “Can you just… do something, like come over or something and keep him company? Just for _one_ night. _Please_.”

“Sorry, I can’t.”

“Why not? What are you doing?”

“Uh, puking my guts out?”

“I have a toilet here,” I say. “A bunch of trash cans. All polished and very, very clean, courtesy of S.J.; they’re totally better than whatever you’ve got at your apartment.”

“Wow, way to shit on my apartment.”

“No offense, but it looks like something _has_ shitted all over your apartment. The entire building.”

“Hey, it’s _affordable_ ,” says Lucky.

“If I were you,” I say, “I wouldn’t be kneeling on that floor.”

“I put paper towels under my legs,” Lucky admits. “Also, I Cloroxed this toilet seat no less than five times with five different Clorox sheets. Did you know using the same Clorox on multiple things actually just spreads the germs around?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t. Now I do. Is that going to stop me from using the same Clorox for literally every single knob and light switch in my house? No.”

“Hmm,” says Lucky. “Put this… _S.J._ … on. Let me tell him that; he’ll appreciate my knowledge more than you.”

“No. You don’t get to talk to him. Your crackhead-ness will scare him away.”

Lucky cracks open his eyes to glare. “Oh, please, you’re worse than me.” Then his lips curl into a terrible, terrible smile and his tone goes disgustingly sticky-sweet. “And why would you be scared of _scaring him away_ , Bryce?”

I growl. “Because he’s _nice_. And he doesn’t want to stay with his mom anymore because she creeps him the fuck out, and I’m not a _monster_ , like you believe, I’m not gonna kick him out in cold blood.”

“Yeah,” Lucky hums, eyes shutting again, “that actually does sound like a dick move, even for you.”

“Wow, thanks for the verdict, Judge Sommers. Can we get back on topic here?”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m on the phone trying not to puke while we talk about your sex life.”

“Well, you don’t have to make it sound like the two things are _related_. There’s nothing puke-worthy about my sex life. I’m great at sex.”

“Gross. I don’t need to know that.”

“Lucky. Please, just come over. Just for a little bit. I’ll literally do _anything_. You know that tablet you were saying you really wanted? I’ll buy it for you. All three thousand dollars of it.”

He actually looks regretful when he says, “I can’t.”

I make an annoyed noise in the back of my throat. “ _Ugh_ , Lucky, what am I supposed to _do_?”

We sit there, kind of looking at each other, and eventually Lucky shrugs.

“That’s it?” I say. “A shrug? That’s all you’re gonna give me?”

“I don’t know what to say, man,” he says. “If you’re bored with masturbating and can’t go out to screw some rando, then obviously you’ve just got to fuck S.J., right? That’s the logical conclusion.”

I don’t even hear the rest of what he says because I’m choking and fucking dying in my bathroom, and S.J.’s gonna bust down this door at some point and find my dead body here and then he’s going to have to call the police or something, and I haven’t even written a will yet, so nobody’ll know that all my cooking stuff has to go to Amy and the LEGOs go to Viv and my screens and video games go to Peter and all my comics and sticker books go to Andrew, etc. etc. How am I supposed to live with _that_?

“I _can’t_ ,” I hiss into the phone when I get some vague motor control back.

“Why not? Don’t tell me he doesn’t look at you like _everyone_ looks at you, I don’t believe that.”

I splutter, a little bit, because I don’t know what to say. What am I supposed to say? That I’ve been trying to figure out if he looks at me _like that_ or not (because he also just seems really lonely and touch-starved), and I _can’t fucking figure it out_? That when I look at him, my gaydar’s all over the place like it’s broken, and I can’t just walk up to him and ask, _Yo, dude, do you like men, per chance? Wanna fuck, since you’re kinda hot (super hot) (crazy fucking hot) and I’m hot too (right? You think so?) and hey, we’re currently living in the same house and I’ve accidentally gotten kind of attached in the past six days (you’re the only thing I can think of) which I am of course absolutely sorry for (it’s probably just some horrible temporary holiday affliction, I’m searching so hard for a cure, trust me) and I’m definitely taking a solid look what I’m doing with my life, but in the meantime, whaddaya think?_

“It’s complicated,” I end up saying.

Lucky sighs. “I dunno, man. Just… invite someone over and then fuck quietly or something. You can fuck quietly, can’t you? Y’know, if you’re so great at sex?”

I glare at him but he’s not paying attention. He stretches a little over the toilet bowl, looking down, and makes a face of vague disgust.

“What?” I can’t help but to ask.

“Dude, I think there’s a dead centipede in here.”

“Flush again,” I say.

“What if more centipedes come up?”

“That’s just a possibility you’re gonna have to live with, my friend.”

“I don’t like bugs,” Lucky says sadly.

“I know, buddy.”

He flushes the toilet and cheers up slightly, so I assume no more creepy-crawlies plague him. “So?” he prompts.

“So, what?”

“Are you gonna have sex with him, then?”

“Um, no!” Then, to lend myself some credibility, I drop my voice to a hiss and add: “I think he’s like, one of _those_ people. _You know_ …. His mom’s _homophobic_ and it maybe rubbed off on him a little? She went on a whole rant when she came over for Christmas, it was disgusting, and my parents didn’t even _do_ anything about it. I’m their child and I was _verbally attacked_ and they didn’t even say anything; what great parents they are!”

“Oh,” says Lucky sympathetically. “Ew. That’s not great.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I am.”

“Your dad jokes are disgusting,” I tell him.

He starts, “Mich—” and then cuts off. I search his face, not really sure if I should broach this subject.

“It’s fine to talk about him,” I say cautiously. “He’s not _dead_.”

“Dead to me,” Lucky laughs, a little bitterly.

“Lucky—”

“No, it’s fine. This isn’t even about me, remember? This is about you. And your smokin’ new roommate. Is he staying forever? Send a pic.”

“I’m not sending a pic,” I say.

“Bryce!” he complains. “You _need_ to! I’ll go to the Bureau of Gays and file a lawsuit if you don’t.”

“I used to be a lawyer; I’d win that case, not you. And he’s here until January fifth.”

“Oh, wow, that’s tons of time! Why are you even complaining, then? Woo him, seduce him—wait no, what is it? Wine and dine him? And then fuck so hard you guys break the bed. Huh. Wait. Maybe not _that_ hard, don’t want you to have to go to Mattress Firm after Christmas. Or do we? Do they have sales after the holidays? Maybe you should wait until after New Year’s, too, just to make sure you get the best deal.”

“Lucky! Stay on topic!”

“I’m so on-topic. Hey, do you think if you just _think_ at him hard enough that you want to have sex, he’ll catch on and you guys can bone?”

“ _I can’t bone him!_ ”

“Because of your delicate moral sensibilities?”

“Bitch!” I hang up on him, his laughter ringing in my ears.


	15. New Year’s Eve and The seventh day of Christmas // S.J.

“S.J.,” Bryce whispers. “Are you still awake?”

I roll over on the couch—which also happens to be a futon because, according to Bryce, Asian families are just ‘like that’—straining to see in the dark. Faint moonlight shafts in through the window at the top of the opposite wall, the only light in the basement; I can hear the loud snores of Bryce’s grandparents through the wall of their neighbouring bedroom.

“Yeah. Why? What’s up?” I hope I don’t sound too needy, or too relieved that he’s awake, too, because I’d been so _bored_ , just sitting here.

I see Bryce, a lump on the other couch-futon, shift. “You should come over here. I’m fucking freezing.”

I smother a snicker so I don’t accidentally end up waking Bryce’s grandparents.

“Don’t laugh at me!” he whines. “You stole all the blankets! You have, like, eight out of the ten blankets. I have _two_! They’re the itchiest ones, too. This is horrible. How did this even happen, in my own parents’ house? It’s all your fault, and you owe me, Fernby.”

“You can’t _make_ me come over there,” I tell him. “I’m quite cosy where I am, right now. You know, all warm and comfortable. You know when you’re so warm you can _feel_ that you’re, like, hot? I am so hot right now.” I waggle a little bit, like a slug, in my cocoon of blankets, all fuzzy and heavenly, in case he doesn’t believe me. I can practically _feel_ the heat of his returning glare, his figure becoming more visible as he props himself up on his elbows, a distinct upper body and head coming into view.

“I’ll come there and take them all back,” he threatens.

“You can _try_.” I wiggle again, to taunt him. It’s not like I have anything _better_ to do: I’ve been sitting here for an hour at least, staring into the void, unable to fall asleep. Though it’s a couple hours past midnight and a couple hours past watching the ball drop on Bryce’s parents’ upstairs telly and a couple hours past clinking glasses with the rest of the adults and about an hour after Bryce’s recalcitrant siblings have been shepherded to bed, I feel as energetic as someone who’s just woken up.

He tosses aside the few blankets he _does_ have and I think I might actually have to start getting worried that he’s going to make good on his promise when one of his grandparents stops snoring in the other room and grunts.

We freeze.

Bryce turns to look at me.

I haul my blankets around me tighter, getting a nose full of soft fibres that tickle me. “It’s not _my_ fault,” I hiss. “ _You_ ’re the one making all the noise.”

“ _Me_?” says Bryce, hauling ass off the couch and leaping over the coffee table with a silent ease that is both scary and sexy. I barely have time to squawk before he’s on me, his fists buried in the blankets, yanking them off me easily—I don’t know if I’m weak in general, or just weak for Bryce doing whatever he wants to me.

“Bryce, no, _no_!” I hiss, legitimately trying to keep possession of the blankets. “Stop, you’re making me all _cold_!”

Instead of fleeing back to his couch with his prizes, he flops down next to me, yanking the blankets over us both, and I _actually_ yelp, too loud in the quiet, when he puts his icicle feet right on my legs, trying to leap away, but I’m caught in blankets.

“BRYCE!”

“ _Shh_!”

We freeze, staring at his grandparents’ bedroom door. Behind it, there’s silence. Then: “Eh, quiet out there,” one of Bryce’s grandparents says. “This isn’t a sleepover for children.”

More silence.

I immediately start giggling, and Bryce shoves a big, freezing hand over my mouth.

“Shush, you’re going to make them come out here!”

I try to say, _I’ll be quiet if you stop suffocating me with that_ ice pack _you call a hand_ , but I don’t think he understands what my muffled grunting is, so I settle for thrashing a little bit, not content with being muted.

“Shh!” he says again, then draws his hand away.

“Oh my God, Bryce, I almost _died_ ,” I hiss at him, sucking in a breath of air. “Your hands and feet are a _hazard_ to society.”

“A lot of people say that,” Bryce says with a smirk, thrashing to make himself comfortable, but he doesn’t put his feet back on me—thank God, or I’d suplex him through the coffee table and not even feel bad about it. “Mostly about my hands, though. Not the feet. I’m not a feet person.”

“Feet are gross,” I allow.

“I agree. Mm, fuck, this is so _warm_. I can’t believe I’d been missing out on _this_ for the past half hour while I just laid there and suffered, staring at the ceiling.”

I snicker as he glues himself to my side, wrapping his arms around my waist and shoving his nose into my neck. His _cold_ nose. I flinch away, staring at him incredulously.

“Jesus, Bryce, have you been _outside_? Why the hell are you so cold?”

“You took all the _blankets_ , bitch,” he says. “Maybe _you_ can’t feel it because you’ve been holed up here all nice and cosy, but my parents turn down the heat at night, and we’re in the _basement_.”

“You’re right, I was having the time of my life before you—OH my God, Bryce, get your fingers away from my side _right now_ before I knee you in the balls.”

“You need to warm me up,” he says, without an ounce of shame, his fingers skirting the space where my shirt and pants meet, making my skin tingle and break out into goose bumps. “Repayment for taking the blankets.”

“You had _two whole blankets_ , Bryce,” I say, attempting to squirm away, but his grip is stronger than I remember, and I can’t really go anywhere. What do I need to do, start working out so I can stand a chance at him not pinning me down at every available opportunity? —But it’s not like I’m not enjoying it.

“Yeah, and you had _eight_! Tell me how that’s fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” I smirk at him, and as punishment, I get his icy hands right on my stomach. I almost shriek, but he slaps a hand over my mouth again.

“SHH!”

“ _Mmf_!” I thrash, but his hands are magnets and won’t get off my skin. The cold burn fades after a second, turning into a dull ache, and he sits on me so I can’t go anywhere even though I’m actively trying to punch him; why aren’t my limbs _working_? Is it the cold, or is it Bryce? Clearly my idiot body is a traitor and won’t hurt him even when I’m commanding it too, because it’s far too fond of him, which I suppose is understandable, considering what he’s done for me. Still, it doesn’t excuse the fact that his hands are making me go _numb_.

“Holy shit, you’re so _hot_ ,” he groans.

I bite his hand.

“Ow! Fuck!” He yanks away, taking all the blankets with him as he nearly falls off the futon.

“That’s what you get.”

“Unfair!” he whispers while I wrench viciously at the blankets before I turn into an icicle, because I can definitely feel the cold air, now, and I’m shivering. “Oh my god, you’re so _mean_!”

“And you’re _freezing_!”

“I’m asking for sympathy in these trying times, S.J., is that too much to ask?”

“Um, yes, when you’re going to be turning me into a human popsicle! I thought you didn’t condone popsicle people.” I manage to get an upper hand on the blankets, but Bryce comes with them.

“This is domestic abuse,” he says.

“You’re domestically abusing _me_ ,” I retort.

“I am _not_!”

One of Bryce’s grandparents clears their throat in the other room as we glare at each other, him propped up on his hands above me; I yank him down, my fists in his shirt, because the slight gap between our bodies is letting all the cold air into our blanket cave; he grunts as he falls between my legs, hands on my shoulders. I can feel his cold eking through my thin shirt. God, is he a _lizard_?

“You have to be _quiet_ ,” he hisses.

“I am quiet!”

“You’re _not_.”

“ _Make_ me be quiet, then.”

His hand ends up at the juncture between my neck and my shoulder, squeezing just enough to make a weird, strangled noise fall out of my throat, his upper body bobbing as he adjusts himself so he doesn’t fall on me and crush me. “Oh my god, I will—” He doesn’t finish, though, just cuts off into a growl.

“If you even think about putting your feet on me,” I whisper, trying to regain some dignity, “I am going to scream so loud that your grandparents come out here and kick you out and make you sleep upstairs.”

“They’d make _you_ sleep upstairs,” he hisses back at me, nose almost touching mine, hair falling all over like a white octopus that’s been dropped on his head. It’s unfairly attractive, to see him so messy and not-put-together like he usually is.

“Would not. I am a _guest_.”

“You’re a _menace_ , is what you are.”

“Says the man with the feet made out of liquid nitrogen.”

“Geez, S.J., you keep going on and on about my feet—”

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence!” I hiss at him, trying to sink an elbow into his body, but the blankets have turned into bondage and I’m trapped amidst wool and polyester and Bryce’s body.

He smirks at me. “Why? Sensitive subject too close to the truth?”

“You _know_ my opinions on feet, and I will shove _mine_ in your mouth if you keep talking.”

“Wow,” he says smoothly. “S.J., come on, we can be honest with each other, we’ve known each other for a week now. If you wanted me to lick your toes, you just had to as—”

I finally manage to get an elbow right in his solar plexus and he grunts, nearly doubling over as much as he can considering that he’s laid out on top of me, and sinks his teeth into my shoulder as revenge. I yelp, and—

And the door to his grandparents’ bedroom opens, sending a triangle of light out into the main room and illuminating me and Bryce.

We freeze.

He removes his teeth from my shoulder quickly. “S.J. stole the blankets—”

Before I can even open my mouth to refute _that_ fat lie, Bryce’s grandfather glares. “We. Are. Sleeping,” he enunciates, while I burn up into embers from embarrassment, because I am acutely aware that Bryce is lying on top of me and Bryce is gay and Bryce’s family doesn’t one hundred percent _approve_ of him being gay, even if they know about it and never heckle him about it, and this is probably reminding them of that, and I am _not_ gay, and what are they going to think about _me_? What are they going to think about _us_? “If you cannot, I suggest a walk outside to calm down.”

“Sorry, _yeye_ ,” Bryce mutters.

His grandfather relocates his glare to me.

“Um, sorry.” Oh, God, I must be _scarlet_ , shit, had we _actually_ been making that much noise?

“Get off him, Caihong,” says his grandfather, “and go to sleep.” He disappears back into his room and firmly closes the door, the light clicking off.

We sit there, staring at the door, not quite sure if he’s going to come back out. I hear the faint murmur of voices through the wall: some Chinese and some English, and then the creak of a mattress and the rustle of blankets.

Then silence.

Bryce and I look at each other.

“That was _your_ fault,” he accuses me, albeit quietly.

“ _You_ ’re the one who came over here,” I say, just as quietly but no less vehemently, because there’s _no_ way I want to interrupt his grandparents again. “Look! You’re on _my_ couch.”

“Both of these are _my_ couches!”

“This is your parents’ house, but you own the couches? _Just_ the couches.”

He glares at me rather impressively, hot enough to send my blood rushing through my veins, and I can’t help but to wet my lips.

“Listen,” he says. “Cut it out with the snark.” There’s no _or else_ that follows, and I have to wonder if he’s… actually being serious? He doesn’t look _angry_ , per se, but his eyebrows are shadowed slashes and his lips are pressed together: there’s a dangerous quality about him, like a cat about to pounce; the planes of his face are sharp and vivid despite the low light, and it’s far too attractive. Rachel had never looked like that: she always seemed slightly fuzzy and blurry, like a pointillism painting being viewed from too close. Bryce is all baroque: severe shadows and lighting and emotion.

I’m unable to resist pressing his buttons. “Or what?”

His eyes narrow, and I can _feel_ the tension crackling between us; I almost think he’s going to punch me before he sighs and flops down on his back, next to me, hauling half the blankets over while I squawk a soft protest.

“Or nothing,” he says.

“What?” I say, propping myself up on my elbows, disappointed even though I didn’t know what I was expecting. Well, I’d been expecting something more dramatic than… _that_. “‘Or nothing’? That’s lame.”

He turns his head just enough to slant a glance at me, his eyes glittering in the low light. “Did you _want_ there to be something?”

“I don’t know. ‘Or nothing’ is rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

He shuffles the blankets right up to his neck and scrubs his hands over his face before burying them under mountains of fabric, again. I think he says, _Fucking Christ_ , but I can’t really hear him all that well.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, nosing closer to his side, attracted by his scent—why, I don’t know, because I’m not a _dog_ —and I try to fling a leg over his waist to hug him like a koala, but he squirms and twists out of the way oddly, hips going in the opposite direction of his chest.

“Nope.”

I squint at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great. Don’t do that, though.”

“Ugh, fine.” I settle for making a pillow out of his shoulder and folding the edges of the blankets back under my body so there aren’t any nooks and crannies for cold air to seep in, tucking my arms between our chests when I’m done.

He smirks a little bit and my fingers play with the edge of his short-sleeved sleep shirt. “See, isn’t this better? No fighting, and we’re _both_ warm and cosy.”

“We could be cosier,” I point out. “You left your two blankets over there on your couch. You could go get up and bring them over here, too.”

“You want them so bad, _you_ go get them,” he says. “I’m not moving. I’m just starting to warm up, and I feel like I’m in _Heaven_. I swear I got frostbite, laying there all alone.”

“Lazybones.”

“I will shove you off this futon.”

“No you won’t.”

“Try me.”

“You won’t,” I say again. “Besides, didn’t your grandfather tell you to get off me? When’s _that_ happening, because it certainly isn’t right now.” I immediately hate myself for saying this, because I don’t him to leave. Unlike his extremities, his torso is very warm, and I like this living space heater all up on me.

“I’m not even on you, _you_ ’re on _me_ ,” he growls, though we both put the conversation on a very hasty pause when we hear the creak of the mattress in the other room.

“Fuck, he’s going to come out here!” I hiss, panicked and shoving at Bryce. “Go back to your couch!”

“No!” Bryce captures my wrists and yanks me half-on top of him, ruining my careful arrangement of the blankets and stuffing his hand over my mouth _again_ —Jesus, how many times is this going to _happen_ tonight? We stare at the door, wide-eyed and guilty, awaiting the worst, my heart fluttering.

Nothing happens. The light doesn’t come on, the door doesn’t open. Under my chest, Bryce relaxes slightly.

“ _Gm ymr hmd mf mm mmm_!” He loosens his grip on me and I shake my head vigorously, yanking out of his grasp and glaring, hands on his chest. “Quit it with that!”

He sticks out his tongue and raises an eyebrow. “Or what?”

“Or _nothing_.”

“Aww, that’s rather anticlimactic, isn’t it?”

I smack him as best I can with my wrists still in his possession, but he tightens his grip until it stings and I gasp, lurching forward and nearly smashing our faces together as I try to get him to loosen up. “Ah! Bryce!”

“What?” he smirks.

“Um, _ow_ ,” I say, yanking against his hands, even though it doesn’t hurt that much. I stick my elbow in his ribs to see if I can get some leverage, but this doesn’t seem to deter him at all because he kind of just… yanks my arms up until I’m sprawled over him like some sort of virgin sacrifice. “Bryce! Let go of me.”

“Why, what’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

He looks at me funny. “I want a lot of things.”

“That’s a horrible nonanswer,” I say, shifting, and he does this weird bucking move that sends me sliding off his lower half. “Ugh, what’s going on with you? Are you drunk?”

“Me, drunk?” he asks, offended. “I had _one_ glass of champagne!”

“You had two, actually,” I say helpfully. “And one glass of cognac.”

“It was _half_ a glass of cognac,” he snaps. “Are _you_ drunk?”

“ _I_ only had one glass of champagne.”

“Yeah, but you’re a lightweight.”

“Argh!” I thump him and he yanks at me harder until I’m left more than a little lopsided, trying to get my balance, my joints straining a little, stinging pleasantly with the stretch. “Ah, ah, okay, okay, stop stop stop. You win.”

“I know,” he smirks.

“Ugh—” I try not to fall on his throat, “—are you going to let go of me?”

He does, without warning, and I pitch forward, squeaking and having to catch myself on his chest.

“Cute,” says Bryce with another smirk.

“Cute, cute, I’m going to stick a knife in your gut, cute.”

“What was that?”

“What?” I blink at him innocently.

“Did you say something?”

“I didn’t say anything. Goodness: how late it is! Aren’t you going to go to sleep?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I can’t go to sleep when you’re lying on me like this.”

“What’s wrong with the way I’m lying on you? I’m perfectly comfortable.” I flump down on top of him and wriggle around, maybe accidentally-on-purpose elbowing him a couple of times, and he grunts.

“Oh my God, are you made entirely of _bones_? Just bones? Are you a skeleton in disguise?”

I glare at him. “ _Rude_ , Bryce! If you had any manners you’d know I’m an eldritch being.”

“Right, and I’m a vampire.”

“Do you vant to suck my blood?”

He snickers. “Sure. Bare your neck for me, O willing prey mine,” he says, his eyes glittering like he doesn’t think I’ll actually do it. Which is why, I tell myself, I lift my chin and tilt my head to the side, the position making me feel exhilaratingly vulnerable, so much so that I can practically feel my blood pounding in my throat.

He freezes—there’s no better description for it—pupils blowing out like a cat about to pounce, wide eyes searching my face.

I can’t help but to prod at him a little, even though I’m breathing a little fast and definitely shouldn’t be playing such games. “O willing prey isn’t going to be sitting here all complacent much longer. You’ll have to start chasing me for it in a couple seconds.”

“I was kidding,” he says, but he sounds very strangled and his hands are very tight on my waist.

“Oh. Okay.” I put my head down, feeling more than a little stupid and self-conscious. “Um, sorry.” My dumb heart is pounding for some reason, enough so that I can feel it hammering against my ribs like a bird beating its wings against its confining cage.

“It’s fine. Uh, don’t be sorry.”

“Right. I’ll just, uhhh…” I scramble off him, awkward; he lets go of me as soon as he realizes he’s holding on, as quick as if I’ve burned him.

Holy shit, what the fuck had I been doing? I can _feel_ how weird things have become, all of a sudden; my brain is in shambles as it tries to figure out how this situation had even _happened_ , though my memories are fuzzy. _Am_ I drunk? I _truly_ had only had one glass of champagne, but I don’t know how else to describe my behaviour, unless I’d gotten high on Bryce’s cologne. Am I a whore? Why am I so close to him right now?

 _Be the stronger man, S.J._ , my dad says in my head. _Since_ Bryce _obviously can’t be._

I scowl at my dad’s poltergeist and tell it to fuck off: there’s nothing wrong with Bryce at all. This weirdness was just because I’d gotten… carried away, or something. It’s not _Bryce_ ’s fault.

“Sorry,” Bryce mutters, and then we’re both scooting away from each other, leaving several inches between us, only staying warm because we’ve got _so_ many blankets.

“It’s fine. I mean, like, nothing was wrong. Nothing _is_ wrong. Right?” I stare at him, but he’s looking away, his head turned toward the wall, so I can’t see, much less decipher, his expression.

“Right, not at all.” He glances back towards me, face uncharacteristically blank.

“Okay, but you’re acting weird, though.”

“What? No I’m not.” He looks _just_ disgruntled enough for me to believe him, and I think maybe I’ve been hallucinating.

“I think you _are_ drunk,” I decide.

“I’m majorly offended at that,” Bryce says, not sounding offended in the least.

“That’s okay, you sit there and you be offended. Meanwhile, I’ll sit here and remember how, the last time you were drunk, you made a hookup into a human straw.”

He scowls and props himself up on one elbow. “Why do you have a memory, S.J.?”

I smile sweetly at him. “Bryce, don’t tell me things if you don’t want me to remember them.”

“Indeed. I’m starting to regret everything I’ve ever said around you. What other things do you remember?”

“I’m going to keep them a secret and plague you with them later, at a fitting time for you to be humiliated. Also, as a side note that is not at all related to our present conversation: do you have any important meetings with important people coming up anytime soon? And are you allowed a plus-one, if any of these meetings happen to be public gatherings?” What would it feel like, I have to wonder, to _be_ a plus-one at an event, hanging onto Bryce’s arm? I can’t imagine it would be terrible at all.

“You’re a horrible person.”

“I’m the best person,” I say. “Answer the question, Bryce.”

“No. I don’t.”

I pull a frown. “That’s a shame.”

“I really don’t think it is, considering you’re looking to ruin my reputation at a moment’s notice.”

I gasp. “I would never!”

“You so would. You would sell me for a corn chip, wouldn’t you?”

“No, it’d have to be at least _two_ corn chips,” I say, and he chuckles. A little flower of warmth blooms in my chest, like I’ve just done something wonderful by making him laugh. Is it crazy for me to want to make that sort of thing happen again? More often?

“Ah, today’s young entrepreneurs. We’re in good hands, aren’t we?”

“Sure, yeah, society’s in the hands of a guy who once _sucked_ his _come_ out of a _stranger’s asshole_. And the man who’d sell aforementioned guy for two corn chips,” I add as an afterthought.

“That was _one time_. And it didn’t even happen.”

“Human straw, Bryce.” He deserves to hear that over and over, because those two words are stuck in my head forever now, and I can forgive Bryce for a lot of things, but not for introducing that phrase into my head.

“Why are you so hung up over that? It wasn’t even _recently_!” Bryce says. “Which brings me back to the thing I was going to say—that wasn’t even the last time I was drunk! That was _years_ ago. And you don’t get to shame me for my sex life.” He points accusatorily. “What’s wrong with hookups?”

“STDs,” I intone dutifully. “STIs. UTIs. Potential cheating. Et cetera.”

“Denied. I never have sex without a condom.”

“HUMAN STRAW.”

“ _That was ONE time_.”

Someone shifts, over in the other room, and we both shut up very quickly, glancing over to the door and pricking our ears to make sure Bryce’s grandparents aren’t going to come out of there and gag us both before tying us down to our respective couches.

After a couple moments, Bryce’s head swivels around smoothly, eyes glinting, and before I can register it, he’s slid across the futon and is practically sitting on my chest, one hand pinning me to the cushions. “Why do you even care, S.J.?”

Why _do_ I care? I can’t understand why I feel like shanking a man I’ve never even met.

“Well,” I sniff, trying to affect normality while also scrambling for an excuse. “We’re friends, aren’t we? I don’t want you to be calling me up in the middle of the night one day, being like ‘Boo-hoo, S.J., I got _chlamydia_ because I wasn’t careful, and now my penis is leaking even when I’m not coming—’”

He recoils, weight lifting from my chest and face twisting up, and my stomach immediately drops: what’ve I done wrong?

“What?”

“Woah, do you know how _weird_ it is to hear you say that word?”

“What? Chlamydia? Bryce, I went through high scho—”

“ _Coming_ ,” he says.

I stare at him in confusion. “What?”

“Coming,” he repeats. “Cumming? I felt very awkward when you said that word. Very uncomfortable. Why do you know that word? You’re a precious baby, how do you know about the sex things?”

I snicker, slight relief washing through me in easy waves. “Jesus, Bryce, I’m not a _virgin_.” It’s easy to say, in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness and the easy kind of fuzzy anonymity that it brings; I don’t feel quite so… awkward or self-conscious saying it, quite so judged. Maybe it’s because we’re alone; because it’s _Bryce_.

“I don’t think I’ve even heard you swear, before,” Bryce is still marvelling. “Are you allowed to swear?”

“Shit,” I say. “Fuck. Damn. Bitch. Whore—”

He smacks a hand over my mouth before I can finish, glaring. “NO. BAD.”

I waggle my eyebrows and shove his hand off my mouth, nearly making him overbalance and fall on me. “What’re you going to do about it?”

He slaps his hand back down square on my chest, and leans down far enough for me to smell mint toothpaste on his breath, eyes narrowed slightly. “Nothing,” he says, in a tone of voice that other people might use to… promise things. Certain things, having to do with touching and making people feel good and—

I flush, excited, but still manage to get out, mockingly: “Aw, anticlimactic.”

His hand presses down a little harder, expression turning sly. “What’re _you_ going to do about it?”

I blink at him for a moment, unsure of what to say or what to do. What am I _supposed_ to say? ‘Nothing’? That would just lead us in circles, and I want—I don’t know what I want, but the moment is rapidly slipping away and we’re going to lose the banter; the comfortable companionship that comes with the friendly arguing we’re doing.

“What do you want me to do?”

“A lot of things.” He sits up abruptly.

“What? Like what?”

His gaze turns sharp. “What’re you _willing_ to do?”

“I’ll dance the chicken dance for you.”

He snorts and looks away for a second, his weight lifting up a little bit, and he shifts, gathering the blankets more firmly around his waist, and then he looks back at me, eyes sparkling. Expectant. “What else?”

“What else do you want?”

“I don’t know, use your imagination.”

Instead of answering, I yank at the blankets, because they’re started to all slip off me, courtesy of Bryce’s constant pulling, but he clings to them tightly. “Bryce!”

“Listen, I’ve got shorts!” he protests, showing off his arms. I _don’t_ fixate on his muscles or anything. I’m just _looking_. Because they’re _there_. “I need these blankets more than you.”

“Oh my God, you piece of sadness, come here, then.”

“Are you going to _cuddle_ me?”

“Fine. Sure. Whatever. Just stop trying to yank all the blankets over to Siberia.”

“I’d never do that to you, sweet love of my life,” he croons, leaping across the distance that separates us and insinuating himself at my side.

“Jesus, Bryce, you’re so _cold_ again already. What the Hell?”

“Listen,” he snaps, sliding his hands under my clothes—I flinch— “we’ve been over this already. Cold room. I’m in shorts. _You_ have all the blankets.”

“You just like to complain,” I tell him, in case he’s not already aware of the fact, trying to pry his hands off me, but he just retaliates by winding our fingers together and leaching warmth from a different part of my body.

He glares at me from an eighth of an inch away. “What’re you gonna do about it? Make me shut up?”

“It’s super tempting,” I snap, eyes caught on the faint glow of his; the way his irises look the colour of Madder blue in the low light: not quite true blue or grey or violet, but a mix of the three, a little hazy, as if he’s not quite real; he looks like a ghost, a little bit, like he might melt away at any moment and leave me here alone in his parents’ house. His body contradicts any ideas I might have, though, because he’s a warm, solid line against my side, more real than anything else I’ve felt before, his hands still tight on my skin, like he’s anchoring us both.

“Do it, then.”

“Make you shut up?”

“That’s right.” He sounds so challenging, like I won’t be able to use my imagination, here. Maybe I use my imagination _too_ much. Just a little. That’s the only excuse I can come up with—or maybe the fact that he’s got my hands trapped, so I can’t really use _them_. I don’t really know what else I was supposed to do—that’s my only excuse for why I yank him forward a little and press my lips to his mouth.

It’s not, like, _naughty_ or anything: just something to keep him occupied so he stops spouting bullshit, because it’s got to be really late already and we probably should be going to sleep—maybe I’m sleep-deprived?—but he makes this little surprised noise, lips parting under mine, and that’s what starts the whole… thing.

The _thing_.

You know what I mean.

The _actual_ kissing thing. Because his tongue darts out and then _I_ try to squeak, which opens my mouth, and then I kind of just can’t… help it? Because—Because _reasons_ , okay? My blood is rushing way-too-loud through my ears despite the fact that I think my brain has stopped and doesn’t _need_ the blood. Bryce shifts, his hand relocating to the back of my head firmly, and it’s horribly emasculating, and it’s—fuck, it’s a kiss that makes me want to die, because my mouth is too sensitive all of a sudden—so sensitive it _hurts_ —and I can feel every single swipe of his tongue. I’m pretty sure I’m whimpering at the little sparks going off underneath my skin and when he scrapes his nails up from the nape of my neck slowly up to the crown of my head, I shudder, eyes rolling back. I think my hand might be under his shirt—I’m not sure, everything’s hot, so hot, when he winds his fingers in my hair and _pulls_ my head back a little bit, teeth dragging at my lower lip in a way that’s going to make me spontaneously combust, I’m pretty sure the last scraps of my dignity fuck off to Hell because I _whine_.

I think I might’ve whimpered out a very pathetic, traitorous “Don’t stop,” and he doesn’t stop. The world spins briefly as he rolls us over and then I’m pinned to the futon and his hand is square on my chest, holding me down. One of his legs slides between mine and his other hand slips down to the side of my face, his fingertips teasing the skin behind and under my ear, his thumb under the cut of my jaw and tilting my head up, and he’s kissing me, he’s still kissing me, and I think I’m dead? Maybe? Like, in Heaven or something? Because it feels good. Really good: way too good for this Earth, and it’s leaving me gasping and reeling, like I’ve just been chucked out of a plane a couple thousand miles above the ground.

He groans—this guttural sound that’s torn out of his throat—and that’s what snaps me out of this reverie, because that—that is _not_ a sound a _girl_ makes—and I’m _kissing_ —and—

I thrash and then his weight is up, gone, and he’s looking down at me with a tilted head, eyes glittering and lips shining, letting me know that I definitely haven’t been a passive participant in this… this _kissing_ , and now I’m panicking.

Because Bryce isn’t a woman.

Like, not in the slightest; he is definitely, entirely, one-hundred-percent man, and I’ve just kissed a _man_ who’s also my _friend_. He’s supposed to be a _friend_ , you don’t kiss a _friend_.

 _Or men_ , snaps my dad in my head.

This horrible, strangled noise comes out of my throat, because what had I been _thinking_? Bryce takes his hand off my chest and then I’m scrambling away, trying to put space between our bodies: I feel like puking. His shirt is all rucked up and his cheeks are flushed and my stomach twists up—

“I can’t,” I hear myself say, already on my feet and backing away from the couch, nearly tripping over the coffee table, warmth be damned; my voice doesn’t even sound like my own, ragged and hoarse. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—” I shake my head, wide-eyed.

His expression is already closing off, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and I don’t want to see it—I don’t want to see anything—so I just turn and flee.


	16. New Year’s Day and The eighth day of Christmas // Bryce

“Bryce?” Michael’s voice is hoarse from sleep.

“Wake up,” I hiss. “Wake up, wake up _all the way_ , this is _important_.”

There’s some clanking on the other side of the line, the rustle of cloth. “It’s _one a.m._ , what the fuck?”

“Listen here, it’s not one a.m. _for me_ , and you need to listen to me because your stupid ex isn’t picking up the phone and I need your help.”

“Lucky?” says Michael, sounding much more alert all of a sudden, bed creaking as he, no doubt, shoots up. “Is he okay? Bryce, if—”

“He’s fucking _fine_ , this isn’t about him, if we ignore the fact that he’s suddenly decided to ignore every single one of my thirty-two calls—”

Michael groans. His bed groans as he flumps back down. “Fine, what the hell do you want?”

I clutch my phone tightly and glance down the stairs, just barely managing to make out the bottom of the basement bathroom door. Which is closed. The shower is still going. It’s been going for the past twenty-nine minutes (he’s probably washing off all the _homosexuality_ ). “Okay. Michael. How do I deal with a gay freak-out?”

“What?” says Michael. “Bryce. You’ve been gay for _years_. You never shut up about dick. What the h—”

“It’s not _me_ ,” I hiss. Fuck, how am I supposed to explain that last night, I made out with someone so goddamn dreamy that I nearly came in my pants, but then oops—turns out roomie _isn’t_ actually self-aware of what the fuck his sexuality is ( _or_ the fact that he’d been straight-up, shamelessly flirting with you for the last _HOUR_ , which isn’t even mentioning the flirting that’s been going on in the last two days _if not more_ ), and now he’s busy panicking because he might not be as straight as he thought he was, and his solution for panicking is to fuck on off out of the house at _two in the morning_ (at least he took his coat) and then not come back until _five_ because, No, nobody needs to sleep tonight, why do you even ask? It’s not like I had stayed awake to wait for him to come back on _purpose_ , I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t been run over or anything, since New Yorkers are fucking crazy and have this bad habit of crossing roads whenever the hell they want regardless of whether or not cars are speeding toward them going a million miles per hour; they just say, _No, it’s not even that close, just walk a bit faster!_

“Jesus Christ, did you go out to a bar last night and get drunk and screw a straight guy? For fuck’s sake, you _said_ you weren’t going to do that on the call yesterd—”

“NO!” I yell at him, then lower my voice to a hiss so I don’t wake up anyone else in the house, because that would not be appreciated. “I’m not _James Charles_ , you idiot! I don’t care about straight men!”

“Except Orlando Bloom,” Michael reminds me.

“Except Orlando Bloom,” I admit. “Circa early two-thousands. He’s aged badly, and I feel the need to make that distinction.”

“Right,” says Michael. “And Johnny Depp.”

“And Johnny Depp,” I allow. “Because he’s a swashbuckling shape-shifter.”

“And Jude Law. And Ethan Hawke—”

“Only in _Gattaca_ ,” I snap. “And yes, I get the point. You can stop now.”

“Can I? You woke me up at one in the morning. I feel like I’m allowed to do this. Why the hell did I ever give you my landline?” I can picture him, on his back in bed, his phone on speaker, an arm flung over his eyes.

“You’re an ass,” I tell him. “ _Help me_.”

“Urgh. Where is he?”

“In my shower. —My parents’ shower.”

There’s a pause. “Say that again,” says Michael. “I think I heard you wrong, because what I heard was that he’s _at your parents’ house_ , in the shower.”

“No, you heard right.” I pace farther into the kitchen, reach the fridge, then turn right back around.

“Bryce,” says Michael, impressively flat. “Why _the fuck_ is a man having a gay freak-out in your parents’ bathroom.”

“I kissed him—Well, actually, no, that’s not what happened, _he kissed me first, okay, so it’s not all my fault_. _He kissed me too._ He kissed me, and then I kissed him back, because people generally appreciate reciprocal kissing as far as I’m aware, only he freaked out and _left_ , and then he came back, and he hasn’t talked to me yet today, and he’s my _roommate_.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Michael?” I demand, because I’m not exactly sure if he’s hung up or not.

“Since when the fuck do you have a roommate?”

“It’s temporary,” I say.

“Bryce,” says Michael. “First you quit being a lawyer to become a model, then you have sex with a pornstar and the video almost gets uploaded to Xtube, then you go to Vegas and win several hundred million dollars, and now you have a _roommate_? What the hell has _happened_ with your life since I left for Japan?”

“I don’t _know_!” I wail. “What do I _say_ to him? ‘Oops, sorry for wrecking your self-perception’?”

“Yeah, no,” says Michael. “Not that.”

“Then _what_?!”

“You expect me to use my brain at one in the morning?”

“Right, sorry,” I say, not without a healthy dose of snark. “I forgot that all your intelligence gets used up by your job, and you’ve got no thinking powers left because you work sixteen-hour days.”

“I don’t work sixteen-hour days anymore,” Michael says, finally sounding remotely irritated.

“Close enough,” I respond, because I can’t help riling him up.

“Well, there’s nothing _else_ to do,” he snaps.

I don’t say anything to that, because I don’t know what to say to that. I could say about a million things (half of them having to do with his relationship status), but I don’t. I’m pretty sure Michael is still pining after Lucky: that’s a black hole I don’t want to even go into, because he gets _too_ sensitive when the subject’s brought up, and it’s awkward for everyone involved, because Michael has never _done_ sensitive before; he never had before Lucky.

Eventually, I decide to go with: “I’m just surprised you’re not dead, yet, with how much you work,” which earns me a soft snarl on the other side of the line. I’ve almost forgotten completely about S.J. (thanks, Michael) when I hear a soap bar being dropped in the tub and my dumb brain, as it usually does whenever I hear this happen, goes: _Drop the soap! Ha-ha_ and I immediately start thinking about S.J.’s ass up in the air. I start to panic. “Anyway! Why are we talking about you? This isn’t about you! You’ve gotten us off-track, as usual.”

“ _Me_ —?!”

“Shut up,” I say. “This is about S.J.!”

“S.J.? Who the hell is S.J.?”

“My _roommate_ , oh my god, I know we were just joking, but do you _actually_ not have a brain, Michael?!”

“You never fucking said his _name_ ,” Michael sniffs. “What’s your problem, again?”

I very nearly scream into the phone.

It’s a close call.

(Ha-ha, literally.)

(Maybe not so literally. Michael currently lives six thousand miles away.)

“The man in my parents’ bathroom,” I say (I’m so calm), “needs to stop having a gay freak-out.”

“Why, so you can bang him without your conscience getting in the way?”

I seriously consider hanging up on Michael. “I know you’re being an ass on purpose,” I hiss into the speaker. “I won’t let that deter me. Tell me how to fix this.”

“Why would _I_ know how to fix this?”

“Right,” I snap. “Sorry. I forgot you’ve had sex with a grand total of six people in your entire life.”

“Five, actually.” He doesn’t say, _I didn’t have sex with that girl in Japan_ , because he’s said it enough. He’d said it millions of times, right after his breakup with Lucky, in a dozen different tones of voice. I hadn’t believed him the first hundred times, then I’d started to believe him for the next twenty-five times, because he’d sounded so very heartbroken, but then I went over to Lucky’s and saw the state _Lucky_ was in and double-checked my priorities and went back to not believing him for the next several thousand times, because nobody legit ever apologizes _that_ much. I’m currently in denial about being on the fence about it, now, because… logically, it _doesn’t_ make sense that Michael would have been in a relationship or had a hookup—much less with a _girl_ —when he’d never done a relationship after high school before Lucky, and he’d _never_ had sex with a girl, he’s been gay since before I knew him and was one of the reasons I came out. But Lucky would never lie about something like that.

“Fine, whatever. Start using your hypothetical brain here, Scott, then, if you need to.”

“I don’t have one.”

“I can fucking tell. You know how I can tell? Because you’re saying _nothing_ useful right now.”

“You sound really bitchy right now,” Michael says, like he’s having fun. I want to rip his throat out.

“Whatever,” I snap, impatient because S.J. is going to come out of the shower _sooner_ or later (preferably later), and I’m going to have _nothing_ prepared to say to him. “Either help me or fuck off.”

He must hear the frustrated tone in my voice, because he heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Try, ‘Hey, I get that you might be uncomfortable, but we should probably talk about last night just to get some things clear.’”

“ _I_ ’m uncomfortable with talking about last night,” I say.

“Jesus _Christ_! How far did you _go_ with this straight guy?”

“Oh my god, are you _deaf_?” I hiss into the phone. “We just _kissed_! It was _one kiss_!”

“Wow, have you gotten better at kissing since high school?” asks Michael. “You’ve actually gotten a man questioning his sexuality after one kiss? _I_ didn’t question my sexuality after kissing you.”

“That’s because you were already gay, you piece of shit!” God, this phone call has been useless. Of course Michael would spout a bunch of bullshit and then give me completely unhelpful advice such as ‘just talk to him.’ “Ugh, you are so not helpful.”

“You asked for my advice. I gave it to you.”

“Yeah, I bet it’s super easy for you to say ‘Talk about your _feelings_ , Bryce,’ because it’s not _you_ , and the second someone brings up _your_ feelings about _Lucky_ , you start acting bipolar as fuck. Ergo: it’s not that easy.”

“I’d talk to him if he’d let me. Don’t be a bitch if you don’t like what I’m telling you,” Michael says coldly.

“ _You_ ’re the bitch.”

“And you’re being childish, now.”

“I regret calling you.”

“Regret it, then. I’m going back to sleep.” He hangs up with a click, and a second later I hear the dial tone. Fuck, my friends are _useless_. It’s not even like I can call someone else, because it’s gotta be approximately the same time in Australia, so Ella’s probably also passed out and one only wakes a sleeping Ella up if one wants to end up as a marionette with their intestines as strings; and it’s evening in England so Queenie’s probably out doing dinner (or out doing her roommate, but I guess I can’t really _judge_ anymore, _can I_?); and Jackie’s on winter break at his university so he’s practically nocturnal, now; Colleen’s probably busy with all her teaching crap; and it’s probably six in the morning or something equally as early for Jason and he won’t be up until ten and he’s just _too nice_ to disturb this early; and Lucky _isn’t picking up the phone_.

I consider calling him again—or, like, _going_ to his apartment, just to check up on him—before I veto both those ideas and chuck my phone across the counter, going back to the fridge, yanking out eggs and feta cheese. I can’t believe I paused my breakfast for _that_ unhelpful conversation.

“Stupid Michael and stupid Lucky,” I mutter. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. S.J. isn’t even that great. I’m over it. I’m so totally over it.” (Lies. So many lies. I’m going to hell.) I yank open the cupboard, pulling out a pan and almost slamming it onto the stove before I remember everyone’s still asleep and Mom would definitely castrate me if I woke her up at ten. I switch on the heat and rattle around with bowls, getting some scrambled eggs going. So what if I kissed him? Yeah, okay, it was a good kiss. An _alright_ kiss, even though the other party had kind of been acting like he’d never been kissed before in his life ( _Not hot, not hot, not hot_ , I chant to myself, _you’re just desperate_ ), but it hadn’t been, like, the holy grail of kisses. There’d been no bright light and second coming of the Lord.

I crack open the feta cheese container and spill brine all over the counter, which is a pretty great indication of how my life is currently going, and I have to mop up the mess with no less than three paper towels. Fuckity fuck. In the basement, the shower shuts off, and my anxiety ramps up to levels so astronomical that NASA could probably use it to power their space shuttles.

I’ve just dumped my egg-and-cheese mix into the pan when I hear the creak of the stairs behind me, and I stiffen so much I’m surprised I don’t turn into a plank.

“Um, hey,” S.J. says softly.

“Hey,” I say. Because what am I supposed to say? I don’t want to turn around and look at him while he says, _So, I want to move out because you molested me. Got any hotel recommendations that don’t include Holiday Inn?_

“About last night,” he says, and I start steeling myself to fucking die. “Um, sorry…”

“It’s fine.”

“…for, um, running. That probably wasn’t a very cool thing to do.”

I’m staring at my eggs _so hard_ so I don’t turn around and see the look on his face and get my heart splintered into a million pieces. Why the hell is my heart even involved? I don’t need my heart involved. I tell it to fuck off.

“Also, um, sorry for—” he sounds like he’s about to die, so I guess that makes two of us, “—um, kissing you—”

“It’s fine.”

A little pause. At least he doesn’t make up some shitty excuse, like _I was just horny and couldn’t control myself, and you were right there!_ or _It was just hormones, and then when I go back to NYC everything’s gonna go back to normal and I’m going to put my penis in so many vaginas_.

“Um. Okay. So are we, uh, good?”

I want to laugh and sob at the same time. So that’s it? _Oops, sorry for kissing you. We good?_

 _No, we’re not good!_ I want to cry, but I can’t think of any reason to back up this claim that isn’t _stupid_. “Sure,” I say instead, and focus on the eggs instead of gross feelings, reaching over to the counter to grab a spatula to shove them (the eggs, not my feelings) around and cut them into tiny bits.

“Are you… sure?” he asks, and he sounds much closer than I remember him being. My head turns of its own volition to see where he’s at, and he’s hovering right behind my shoulder, so close I can almost feel his body heat; I swear and jump away, startled, very nearly flinging the egg pan across the kitchen with surprise, barely managing to save it by sacrificing my hand to become a crisp.

I screech and yank my hand off the hot metal; he yelps and jumps back, wide eyed: “Oh, God! Sorry, sorry!”

“It’s fine—”

But he’s latched onto my wrist and is dragging me to the sink, flipping on cold water and yanking my hand underneath.

I hiss.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Stop apologizing.”

He frowns, still too close: I can see the worry lines between his brown and the slight way he sucks his bottom lip in. “People say ‘I’m fine,’” he says, “for when they’re _not_ fine but they don’t want people to know.”

“I’m not deflecting. I’m doing _great_. Wonderful. Obviously, would be doing better if I wasn’t burned and worrying about my eggs turning into a black crisp—”

He reaches around me with long arms and moves the pan to a cold burner, still _too close_ for a guy who was having a gay freak-out this morning from two to five a.m. (and probably still is) and his hand is _still_ around my wrist. I can smell my parents’ coconut soap and shampoo clinging to him; he’s still damp.

“Thanks,” I mutter, turning my attention to the tap. The water pummeling my hand. His fingers, tight on my skin. “I’m probably good. Can… go back to breakfast.”

“Um, so…” he says, still not letting me go, and I turn my head to look at him. He’s got beautiful eyes: they’re a shade of bright blue you can’t help but to notice; they make his hair seem redder than it is, or maybe that’s just the light, washing in through the kitchen window as the sun hurdles over the horizon. His eyelashes are still clumped with water. He looks nervous, like he thinks I might take a swing at him. “You’re not… angry?”

“No.”

We’re definitely wasting water. My hand is numb. Am I supposed to be doing something? Say something else? Should I object to being used as his gay guinea pig? Be all offended?

_I kind of liked it, though._

“Um.” He turns neon red and looks out the window. “Can we, um, do it again?”

 _Even if he_ —

Wait.

What.

“What?”

He turns his face toward the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobs. “For, um, scientific purposes.”

“For scientific purposes?” I repeat, incredulously. The environment is so definitely fucked with the amount of water we’re running.

He cringes. Lets go of my wrist suddenly like he remembers that he’s still holding onto it, and I take this as initiative to shut off the tap and take a step away from him before things can start happening out of the blue and then later send him (and me) spiraling down an enormous tunnel of regret.

“Obviously, you can say no—Um, you don’t have to—Never mind. This was stupid. Sorry. Never mind.” He’s looking anywhere but me.

“Hold on,” I say. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying, _why_ do you want to do this? Because if this is just to make you feel terrible about yourself so you can go back to New York and beat up on yourself endlessly for not being a good enough son, then no. I am fuel for sweaty fantasies, not depressive episodes.”

He snorts—and looks startled for doing it—and a surprised smile flicks across his face. He shifts, like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now, having this conversation. “Um, I’m sorry for running. And I’m sorry for coming back so late. I had to—um. But I was thinking—”

“You were _thinking_?”

“Yes, Bryce, I _think_ ,” he huffs. “There’s a brain under this hair, not just empty space for flies to buzz about. I can even do math.”

I _have_ to grin at that. Ugh, why does he have to be hot _and_ funny? “Every Asian man’s dream,” I murmur, and I see a quick smile flit across his face.

“Um, and I was thinking about… stuff. Like, stuff that happened. Obviously.” He goes back to being red. “And. Um. I did not come to any conclusions about… uhhh…”

“Sexuality?”

He settles for, “Yeah.” Blushes _again_. “But. It, um. Did. Feel? Good?”

“Did it?” I say, peering at his face. He’s still determinedly not looking at me and is doing a very good impression of a beetroot.

“Yes?”

I almost say, _Better than kissing Rachel?_ before I catch myself, and I settle for: “How good?” Because his answer had sounded like a question, not the affirmation of a transformed hedonist.

“Bryce!” he complains.

“Good enough to want a repeat?” I just can’t resist poking at him.

“You’re insufferable,” he huffs, but he doesn’t _deny_ it.

“I never claimed to be anything but,” I smirk, wiping my hands on my pants and then remembering— _Ow_ , I’m fucking injured.

“I’m—so sorry about that!” he says, leaping forward and kidnapping my hand again, turning it over and inspecting each finger with single-minded focus, bangs falling in his eyes. “Do you have, um, blister bandages? I think you might have a blister starting here.” He brushes his fingers against some skin and I flinch involuntarily. “I’m sorry. Again. Where are your Band-Aids?”

“I can… fix myself up,” I mutter, but he glares at me like the notion is completely unthinkable, so I relent and remind him of where the first aid kit is in the upstairs bathroom and he leaves speedily, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen; I would’ve believed that he never came in here in the first place if it hadn’t been for my burned hand and the half-cooked eggs on the stove telling me otherwise.

“What the fuck?” I whisper to my parents’ kitchen.

The kitchen, since it is made of non-sentient appliances, doesn’t answer, so I just blink at the sink for a second before my stomach growls and reminds me that I _still_ haven’t eaten since nine o’clock last night.

Clutching my burnt hand to my stomach, I lean over and pull the pan back on the burner, grabbing the spatula off the floor and cleaning up egg bits before someone can come over here and step on them and cuss me out; I also use this moment to squint at my hand, where I’ve a thick red line across four fingers. Fucking _ow_.

But also: S.J. wants to kiss me?

I feel like a dumb teenager again, ready to jump around the kitchen screaming because his crush likes him back and that… that hits too close to home for comfort, so I chuck the entire thought out of my head entirely. I don’t have a _crush_ , he’s just cute and I’m backed up. Also, he’s leaving back for New York in four days, so it’s not like something’s going to _happen_. It’s just… we’ll probably just kiss. A lot. And then I can fill the in-between-time with jacking off desperately in the shower, thinking about stuff I’d _like_ to happen, whether that’s creepy or not, to be fantasizing about someone without their explicit consent.

S.J. comes back before I can start yelling at myself some more (and maybe contemplate calling my therapist two weeks before I’m supposed to show up for our next appointment), hauling nearly the entire closet with him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, dumping the contents of his arms all over the counter. “I didn’t know what to bring. Do you put alcohol on burns?” He frantically scrambles to right some tipped-over bottles. I think I see the alcohol, as well as iodine and hydrogen peroxide, and I think: _Has this guy_ ever _injured himself?_

“Um, no,” I say. “Aquaphor is fine. And a bandage.” I look down at my hand. “Or maybe three bandages. I don’t want to walk around all day holding things like a LEGO man.”

I see a flash of a smile before he ducks down and hides it, scoping through a million containers. I think he might’ve brought some makeup, too? I spy what seems to be one of my mom’s blush pots. It’s hella cute—as long as he puts that blush back where he found it, because otherwise he’s going to get smacked over the head with a flipflop, if _my_ experiences are anything to go off of.

“Honestly, I can do it by myself—”

He growls, cutting me off, so I just give up and let him possess my hand (it _doesn’t_ get all tingly, I’m not a _middle schooler_ , shut up!) and smear on too-little and then too-much Aquaphor, and then strap on Band-Aids (Disney princess, at my insistence) that turn out endearingly crooked.

He looks at me while I use my free, non-burnt fingers to swipe away the excess Aquaphor that is oozing out the sides of the Band-Aid. “Um. Can we—”

“Huh?” I glance up and he flushes, looks at the ceiling like it holds all the answers.

“Can we do it again?” he whispers.

“What? Do what? Burn me? No thanks, gonna have to pass—” I don’t even manage to finish before he pulls my hands apart gently, steps into my space, and presses his mouth against mine, head tilted up slightly. His lips are soft—as soft as I remembered them being last night—and _not_ closed, like they had been last night: apparently, his new directive is to kill me as fast as possible with pleasure—to just brain me with it—because he just… goes straight in and sucks on my bottom lip, which isn’t super whorish, under further consideration, but it definitely makes me stumble a step back so that my ass hits the counter and I have to catch myself before I fall backward and knock myself out on the kitchen cabinets, which are conveniently at head-height, like they’ve been existing my whole life just waiting for this moment to happen so they could take me out and the police could say, _Here lies Bryce Qiao, he died because he was kissed so damn hard he tripped and hit his head and got a major concussion, and instead of going and calling 911 like a normal person, he stayed so he could be kissed some more._

“Bryce?” S.J. says, concerned, and I squint my eyes open to see his face hovering a couple inches away.

“Why’d you stop?” I whine, and he huffs a laugh and smiles, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to mine again. I curl my non-Aquaphored hand in the back of his shirt and try to remember how to breathe without suffocating myself on how good he smells like this: like he’s mine.

His tongue is definitely in my mouth, now: I don’t know if that was on purpose or not, but _he_ seems to be enjoying it and I’m also having the time of my life, so I’m not about to stop sucking on it. He doesn’t taste like anything in particular (he doesn’t use mint toothpaste because mint hurts his mouth) but his tongue is warm and his lips are warm and if I nip at them a little, that’s on me. He doesn’t complain, though. He’s pressed up against me, chest-to-chest: I can feel his body heat leaching off of him as well as the heat on my left arm from the stove, but I couldn’t care less about the stove right now.

He slides his hands under my shirt and I swear I _squeak_ , because it’s like he’s not nervous at all.

He immediately draws back, concerned. “Is that okay? Are you comfortable?”

“Am I _comfortable_?” I say incredulously. “Yeah. Hell yeah! I’m as comfortable as can be, ha-ha. Just—I don’t want _you_ to do something you’re going to regret later or anything. You know? Like, sexual things? Is putting your hands up my shirt particularly sexual?”

He hesitates, clearly trying to take in my ramble, and I want to slap myself a bit. “I… don’t think so? Like, it’s not as sexual as other, um, things.” He laughs a little softly. “It’s not, like, comparable to my hand on your throat.” And then he turns pink, like he can’t believe he said those words.

Yeah, I definitely _don’t_ get half an erection from _those_ words. I start trying to shuffle away from him so he doesn’t get weirded out by my complete and utter lack of control, but his eyes turn cool and calculating all of a sudden, which is rather terrifying and does nothing at all to help the situation in my pants. Why the hell haven’t I seen _that_ look before? Where has _it_ been hiding?

“Where are you going?” he asks, neatly trapping me against the counter by taking one step over and caging one of my legs in between his.

“Uh, nowhere. What are you talking about?”

“My hand on your neck,” he says, _out of fucking nowhere_ , and I don’t _make a weird noise_ , shut up. We’re in my _parents’_ house, _okay_? I’m allowed to be… slightly worried about discussing this topic because I definitely want it to go in directions that probably wouldn’t be a hundred percent appropriate for _my parents’ house_.

His eyes go all wide and innocent. “Bryce!”

“What?” I snap, only _slightly_ panicked, because I don’t have a defense for this planned, okay? I thought we were going to be taking this _slow_. I thought he was going to _wait until we got home_ and then maybe, I don’t know, kiss me gently? Nicely? Which isn’t to say that I don’t want _this_ —

“Do you _want_ my hand on your neck?”

“Oh my god,” I hiss, nervous, looking around to see if anyone’s snuck into the kitchen while I hadn’t been paying attention, “don’t say it like _that_.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s—it’s—easy!”

He’s silent for a second. Then a terrible, terrible smirk spreads across his face, because he can be a _devil_ when he wants to be and he presses a little bit closer, his chest against mine, so we’re nose-to-nose. “Is it _not_ easy?”

“Uh—”

“I’m going to do it,” he decides, “and then you can tell me if it’s easy or not. Okay? Is that okay?” he looks worried for a second; like the actual S.J. I know and not… not whoever the fuck _this_ is, who apparently got traded in for S.J. while he’d been going and grabbing bandages.

I scramble for the first lame excuse that comes to mind, then consider how if I use an excuse, he’ll probably back off all the way despite the fact that I _definitely_ want to get choked by him, because horniness doesn’t care that I’m in my parents’ kitchen and wants me to get on the ride _right now_ because it’s been _two fucking months_.

“Bryce?”

“Sure—I—”

“Yeah?” His grin is _killer_ ; it doesn’t even matter that I don’t get to finish because he reaches out and fits his palm against my throat and I shut up at a speed that I didn’t even think was possible—not because he’s holding me tightly, his hand is just resting there, deceptively light—and I think I might get what Lucky was talking about with the collar thing (and maybe I should try it), because I swear to god I’m gasping and flushing from _nothing_ , and I’m humiliated that I’m already edging on So Damn Turned On That I Can’t Think, all my blood going straight to my crotch, when he’s not even _doing_ anything; I’m never usually this easy.

“Do you like it?” he whispers, eyes searching my face, as if I’m not three steps away from either 1) having my eyes roll up in my head and collapsing or 2) desperately humping his leg like a dog in heat.

I think I squeak out something vaguely intelligible—or unintelligible—I don’t know—but it seems to be vaguely satisfactory for him, because he tightens his grip ever-so-slightly ( _holy fuck I’m going to come in my pants_ ) and _pulls_ me over to him _by my neck_ , like it isn’t even hard for him to be controlling me like this, like it isn’t even hard to have me unable to breathe, and kisses me again.

I moan, too loud and too pitched, in the quiet house, and a frisson of fear has my eyes flying open to see if anyone’s heard, but all I can see is S.J.; my eyes aren’t even open for that long because he suddenly decides it would be a great idea to pin me very firmly against the counter and get so close that his thigh is _right_ between my legs and I’m so much of a slut that I can’t help bucking forward frantically into the slightest hint of friction.

My hands are fisted in his sleeves by the time he yanks away so that we can catch our breaths; I don’t fucking know how _he_ ’s still acting normal, but I’m slack-mouthed and honestly surprised that I’m not drooling.

“Enjoying it?” he asks, voice raspy—his eyes widen and he clears his throat, but at the same time, he kind of… leans forward a bit and puts some weight behind his leg, making me whimper and grind against it shamelessly, because I can’t even think about his delicate sensibilities right now; he _has_ to know what he’s doing, he’s plastered against me, there’s no way he _doesn’t_ feel everything that’s going on right now, embarrassing as it is or not, and I can—I can feel him, too, in his pants; there’s a hard line of arousal there, but he’s not moving away.

“Ohmygod—S.J.,” I gasp, “I’m—Fuck, you’re gonna—”

“Gonna what?” he whispers, leaning in closer, his eyes almost black with how blown out his pupils are. He doesn’t give me the chance to answer, slotting our mouths together again, which is great, because then he can keep me upright, since all of my joints have turned into Jell-O and no longer have the priority of holding me up.

His hands relocate from wherever the fuck they’d been and slide _just_ under my shirt, teasing at the waist of my pants and making me shiver violently, because I definitely want them in other places—other places that are close to that, but a tiny bit lower. I don’t know what’ll egg him on—I’d make more noise, but _my parents are several walls away_ , so I settle for kissing him more than a little desperately until he’s gasping and making little broken-off moans that get lost in my mouth, shoving himself against me and shoving me farther into the counter, just barely grinding into me. Not even grinding. Pressing. It’s such a turn-on, knowing that he’s so very controlled right now and I’m so very _not_ , but I can’t help it, I can’t even _think_ anymore, why does he have me so helpless—

I curl my fingers in his belt loops so tightly that, if my brain were working normally, I might be afraid of cutting off my circulation, but I’m trying to drag him closer, because I want him to make me _hurt_ —I need—

He, very abruptly, rips himself away from me like a Band-Aid and takes several quick steps back, nearly making me topple over as I desperately try to follow him, making some pathetic noise that probably wouldn’t sound out-of-place coming from a dying animal.

He licks his lips and blinks several times quickly while I gasp and try to… try to yank myself back together by the barest strings of my mind, because what’s wrong—is something wrong?

“Woah,” he says.

“S.J.? Are you okay?” I try to scramble into a proper standing position, using the counter as leverage and knocking something as he shakes his head swiftly.

His eyes are still blown.

“I’m—I’m good.” He licks his lips. Stares at me, his chest rising and falling visibly beneath his shirt. “Great. I’m great. Uhhh… Holy shit.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Faintly, I can smell burning, and I wonder if it’s all my hopes and dreams, withering away.

He stares at me incredulously. “Um, _you_? No—No! Why would you…. No!”

I blink at him and shake my head as well, as if this can settle my brain cells, which are currently swirling lazily around my head like snow in a snow globe and _not working_.

“You’re great. You’re, um, fantastic!” A bright red flush crawls up his neck onto his cheeks. “I just need to, um. Need to not, uh…” he lowers his voice to a hiss. “Bryce? When are we going back to _your place_?”

“My place?” I repeat, still stuck several points behind in the conversation and trying not to freak out that he’s going to screw off and leave me.

He looks at me like I’m stupid; I realize I probably deserve this as my brain _finally_ hums and sputters back online, and puts two and two together. “ _My_ place?” I yelp, practically trying not to jump as my libido wars with common sense. Holy shit, does he want to go back home and—what, _fuck_? I can’t fuck him! I can't fuck someone who’s _never done something with a guy before_ ; especially not one this _attractive_ , what the hell!

“Yeah. When?” He looks at me pleadingly and I see that he’s tugging down the front of his shirt. My eyes get caught a little bit on the ridge of his trapped erection (fuck, fuck, why am I checking him out so blatantly?).

“Uh—” I force my eyes to more presentable areas (bitten mouth; wide eyes; pink cheeks adkfskjfk), “—when do you want?”

“Um, like, soon?”

“Okay. Yeah, uh—” I glance behind me to the counter full of first aid shit. “—yeah, we can go—probably just gotta—clean up… tell the family we’ll be off, then—”

He bobs his head. “Cool! Cool. Um. I’ll just—take this stuff back to the bathroom super quick.” He scrambles for the counter first aid, scooping it all up in one go rather impressively, nearly dropping a couple bottles. “Be right back.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me staring after him, wanting to follow, still with a raging fucking boner. At least, until the fire alarm goes off in the hall and I leap around to see my eggs have been burned _past_ being a charcoal crisp, and fuck—people are _definitely_ going to wake up, now: if not from the racket, then from the smell.

Fuck, I’m so fucked!

(In more ways than one.)


	17. The ninth day of Christmas // S.J.

“No, I want _twelve_ pancakes!” Andrew insists from the kitchen.

“You can’t eat twelve pancakes, bud,” says Bryce, expertly wielding a pan. “You can have four.”

“But I want twelve!”

“Okay, how about this,” says Bryce. “I’ll keep giving you pancakes until you can’t eat them anymore. And then we’ll count them up and see how many it was.”

“But you can’t count them if they’re in my tummy!” Andrew giggles.

“I’ll get an x-ray.”

“If Andrew’s getting twelve, I want twelve too!” Amy says.

“There better be some left for me!” Peter yells from the couch, and then something promptly happens to him in _Xcom 2_ and his avatar dies. He swears extravagantly.

“So, _what_ exactly are you doing here?” Vivian asks me, next to Peter, narrow-eyed and staring at me hovering in the doorway, her glare so potent it’s making me want to run into the kitchen and cower behind Bryce.

“I’m… kind of just… staying here? For now?”

“Why,” says Vivian. No emotion. Are teenagers robots? Have they become robots in the past fifteen years?

“Um—”

“Be nice, Viv,” calls Bryce from the kitchen. “I invited him.”

“Are you sure he’s not spying for his nut mom?” she yells, still staring me straight in the eye.

“Why the fu—heck would he be spying for his mom?” Bryce yells, irritated.

“So he can report back to her if I’m wearing that disgusting neon pink, leopard-print lingerie she bought me.”

I cringe. “Is that what she—”

“Yes.” says Vivian, glaring at me.

“Don’t be mean, Viv, you know that’s not his fault. S.J.’s really nice.”

I know Bryce’s words are supposed to be a compliment, but I can’t help but to be a little disappointed: I’m ‘really nice’? That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, though I literally can’t think of any reason why I’d want a… _ringing endorsement_. I just thought… maybe he’d be a little more enthusiastic after practically, um, making out with me all day yesterday after getting back to his place? Show a sign like he might’ve enjoyed it? _Did_ he enjoy it? Maybe he thinks I’m a terrible kisser; I’m pretty sure I haven’t had as much experience as him if his tales about his other conquests are any information to go off of. Also, I shouldn’t be kissing him at all because I’m not, like… gay. Right? Or am I? I just don’t understand why it feels so good and how I’ve suddenly been transformed into a hedonist; I’ve never had any trouble controlling myself before. It hadn’t felt like this when I’d kissed Rachel. Kissing Rachel had been… nice, but I’d never felt the need to fuse myself to her skin like I do with Bryce. I’ve kissed _him_ way more times in twenty-four hours than I’d kissed Rachel in several days, and also kind of gone way farther when considering the fact that I’ve been having to take freezing cold showers afterwards, which never happened with Rachel. Is something wrong with me? Because when I kiss Bryce, I feel like I’m going to pass out from euphoria, like, every single time. I’m not sure if it’s is supposed to _be_ like that.

I offer Vivian a tentative smile.

She doesn’t return it, just scowls harder.

Right. Okay. I scurry out of the room and into the kitchen, Bryce turning around as I enter, a goofy grin spreading across his face, a counterpoint to Vivian’s crankiness; his hair isn’t slicked back, today, it’s in a little bun at the crown of his head, which is more attractive than I’d care to admit. When’s he _not_ attractive? I’ve been mooning after him all day, which normally I would be embarrassed over, but I don’t have time for it because half of that time, I spend kissing him.

I can’t kiss him right now, though, there’s witnesses in here: Andrew’s still clinging to Bryce’s leg, and Amy’s standing on a stool twice her height, her hands on the counter to balance them as she stares, without blinking, at the growing mound of pancakes on a big platter.

“Hey,” says Bryce.

I clear my throat and try very hard not to look at his butt. I’ve never wanted to look at someone else’s butt so much before; it’s an odd feeling to deal with. “Hey.”

He dumps a new pancake onto the platter and both of the twins perk up.

“Just take it,” he sighs, and Amy grabs for the platter. “No—wait—get down, first.”

“BREAKFAST!” screams Andrew, letting go of Bryce so he can launch himself out of the kitchen. Amy, in the meantime, has scrambled off her stool and is now tottering through the kitchen, holding the enormous platter that Bryce has entrusted her with, teetering comically from side to side.

“Should we be, uh, worried about that?” I point after her as she makes her way out into the hallway.

“Nah,” says Bryce, flipping the burner off before going over to the refrigerator and rummaging around. “She has a good track record. She’s carried similarly-sized things nineteen other times and has only dropped her cargo once.” He turns around, an easy smile stretching across his face when he sees me grinning. “What?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Just—that you know that.”

He huffs a little laugh and pushes the fridge door closed with a hand that’s holding a bottle of maple syrup. “I gotta win all those ‘best brother’ contests.” It takes him four steps to get to where I am.

“Why? Are you that competitive?” I meant for the words to be lightly teasing, but the grin fades from his face. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says. Pauses and glances to the dining room. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Um, of course.” _Why, is something wrong?_

He glances away for a split second—eyes maybe called by the catastrophic clank of plates and forks as everyone in the other room lunges for food. Then his gaze is back on me. He leans in until his breath is just brushing my ear, his free hand wrapped gently around my bicep. “I just don’t want them to turn out… like me, you know?”

I pull back a little so I can search his face. “What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

A smile flits across his face, like he’s thinking, _Of course you would say that_ , and a little spark of frustration, at the thought that he might not believe me, flutters in my stomach.

“BRYCE!” hollers Peter. “WHERE’S THE _SYRUP_?”

“I’m coming!” he yells. To me, quieter: “I know that. But our parents are kind of weird. They fucked me up a little, they fought so much when I was younger. The dilemma of having a kid when you’re still in high school, you know? Especially since they were Chinese. They got kicked out by their own parents, and had to make a life for themselves. That’s the kind of thing they don’t let you forget, when it’s your fault. I don’t think they’ve gotten over it, yet. They still fight: with each other, with the kids. I don’t want that to be their only role model.”

“That’s _not_ your fault,” I say, and I’m angry at his parents, now: I’d thought they were nice, but I don’t know if I can look at them the same after learning _this_.

He grins and pulls me a little closer towards him, which isn’t great because I’m going to get side-tracked if he keeps looking at my mouth _like that_ , even if he _is_ telling me about childhood tragedies while it happens. “I know. I’ve got help, it doesn’t bother me l that much anymore. But I don’t want _them_ to have to live through the same thing. I don’t want them to flinch every time someone moves a little too sharply, I don’t want them to cower whenever someone raises their voice. I don’t want them to have to go through hours and hours of secret therapy, because my parents don’t believe in therapy, to get over depression and self-blame and anger management. You feel me?” His eyes search my face. I hate, a little bit, that he’s smiling: that he can talk about this while smiling, like it isn’t a big deal, while I want to start a war on his behalf.

“Bryce—”

“I know you do,” he says, lips curving. “I can see it in your eyes.” He touches my temple gently, the tip of his finger cold from the maple syrup bottle.

“ _BRYCE_!” wails someone from the dining room. “Amy’s stealing all the pancakes!”

He spins us around and I catch his wrist before he can leave entirely, brain still spinning as I try to process. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He grins brilliantly. “I’d talk about anything with you. —Maybe not right now, though,” he says, as an angry screech cuts through the air. “I think I have a disaster to avert, real quick.”

I loosen my grip and he takes a couple of tiny steps back, like he doesn’t _really_ want to leave, but the promise of chaos calls him. He grins and puts a hand on the corner as he turns it, still watching me. Then he disappears. “Dear Lord, _sit down_! Have they been teaching you _manners_ in the barn where they keep you?”

As I follow, I think: _He’s doing a good job._ Maybe it’s something I should tell him, but I’m too embarrassed about the thought itself. I’m aware that I know barely anything about him, about his family; that he’s got mountains of stories that he’s collected since sixth grade, and I know only a handful of them. But seeing him with his siblings, like this: I would’ve killed to have had a brother like him.

“NO!” Bryce yells, while my brain is busy being sappy, standing and holding a tilting plate high above his head and shoving the twins off him as they try to climb up his torso; in the background, Vivian’s yelling at Peter while Peter uncaps and upends the entire bottle of syrup over his pancakes. “These are for S.J.; get down, you fiends!”

“I bet I can eat more than him!” Andrew yells.

“It’s not a competition,” Bryce says, handing me the plate before plopping the twins back in their seats. “Sit down and eat, or someone’s going to take your food. Peter! Jesus Christ, you’re going to die of a sugar overload.”

“I will _not_!” Peter says, but he’s been sufficiently distracted for Vivian to steal the syrup from him.

“I hope you’re not too dead-set on getting syrup,” Bryce tells me as Vivian saturates her pancakes.

“It’s okay. I’m not a big fan.”

Apparently, neither are the twins, because they’re already going to town by the time Vivian sticks the now-pretty-much-empty bottle back in the middle of the table.

I pull out a seat, thankful that she’s distracted enough to not be glaring at me anymore.

It’s quiet, mostly, as everyone gets food in their mouths, and I slip Andrew one of my pancakes when nobody’s looking, because four’s too many for me. He beams at me and I feel like I’ve performed a miracle of God, nearly giving him the rest, too.

“I need to go pee,” Vivian mutters, getting up from the table.

Bryce sighs, pulling out his bun so his hair seems to wilt with his mood. “You couldn’t just say, ‘Excuse me’?”

“Like you wouldn’t ask where I was going, if I did that,” she says, though neither of them sound particularly irritated and she shoves at him companionably when she passes, nearly face-planting him in his pancakes.

He growls something in Chinese, shooting his hair tie after her like a rubber band; she just laughs. There must be something wrong with me, because I can’t tear my eyes away from Bryce: he’s devastatingly handsome even when he’s informal; I’m blushing, surely, and I nearly choke on my next bite. Ack, what’s _wrong_ with me?

“’Scuse me for a sec,” I mutter, getting up from my chair. Fuck, I need somewhere to hide so I can get it together, because I’m pretty sure I’ve been staring at Bryce the whole time I’ve been at the table and I really need to get a hold of myself or else _people_ are going to start suspecting something’s going on, and they’re going to start asking questions and I don’t know how to answer questions!

I nearly run straight into the closed bathroom door, remembering Viv’s in there at the last minute, and make a prompt U-turn. Obviously, the next logical place to go becomes Bryce’s bathroom. It’s not like I haven’t _been_ in there—Bryce and I were… making out in there this morning, right after he came out of his shower, and I kind of can’t look at the sink counter without turning bright red, because we’d definitely done some, uhhh, _stuff_ that should be done _before_ a shower, not after it. Like, nothing had _happened_ , but it’d still been… _exciting_ —for lack of a better word. Fuck, this is so not helping me calm down. What do I need to do, stick my head under the tap?

I whimper and bang my head against the wall a little, which does nothing except make my skull hurt.

There’s a soft rap on the door. “S.J.?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, that’s _Bryce_!

“Yeah?” I leap for the sink and flip on the water because I have to seem like I’m doing _something_ in here, not just… _thinking about him_ in totally inappropriate ways. Also, I’ve already thought about this! I spent several hours thinking about this. I shouldn’t need to think about it _more_ , I thought I already came to the conclusion that… that it’s fine for now, I’m just trying stuff out. I scrub my hands until they’re red and wipe them on my pants, flinging open the door. Bryce is bobbing around just outside, hands in his pockets, looking perfect as per usual.

He grins when he sees me even though I’m pretty sure I look like a spooked deer, currently. “Hey.”

“Hi. Um, sorry.” I flush. “Your sister was in the hall bathroom.”

“That’s fine. You’re not a caged chicken and I’m not a farmer. Feel free to be free-range.”

He’s really close, lips twitching, and both of us are kind of in each others’ way but neither of us are moving or asking the other to move, and I can see his eyes roaming across my face.

“I’ll just, um. Go? Back to the dining room? And… finish eating?”

“Okay,” he says, kind of dreamily, and I nearly jump when he puts a hand on my chest, scrunching up my shirt, leaning forwards a little, because my skin feels like it’s about to turn into sparks and burn off my body.

“Um. Just one… really quick,” I say, and then his lips are on mine and he’s pressing forward, making me sway backwards and hit the wall; his hands are on my shoulders and _my_ hands are under his shirt and I can feel the jump of his muscles as he draws at my lips. I’m going to die here, it feels so good: Bryce is _definitely_ a person who knows what he’s doing and my brain is getting extremely foggy extremely fast, so I can’t even come up with a list of ideas about why it’s probably not the best idea to be doing this _again_ , especially while his siblings are _right out there_. How do I lose control so easily when _he_ ’s involved?

He draws back and I can’t figure out why, so I follow, pressing my lips to the cut of his jaw, and he makes this… _pleased_ sound, like he likes it, so I do it again, trailing all the way up to his ear and nipping there while he sighs and nuzzles into my neck, his breaths hot.

“Bite me,” he murmurs. Or, I think he does? I might be hallucinating because of all the endorphins.

I have to let his earlobe out of my teeth so I can say, “What?”

“Bite me,” he says again, like he’s got no shame. “Give me a hickey.”

I’m pretty sure I turn red but I don’t even think he sees: he’s licking my neck and that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. I tip my head back in bliss and hit it on the doorframe, gasp with the sharp pain it brings.

“Oh shit, careful.” Despite the concerned warning, he’s smiling when he wraps his hand behind my head, cradling it, nose-to-nose with me. We’re probably past it already, but I can’t forget what he’d said.

“Where?” I ask, kind of breathlessly.

“What?”

“Where do you want your hickey?”

His mouth falls slack like he can’t believe I’ve asked, his eyes turning heavy-lidded. “Anywhere,” he breathes.

Not to be shallow, but _fuck_ , the way he looks… flushed and glazed with pleasure; I think, _I’ve done that, me_ , and that’s an ego boost I’m not going to soon forget. Is that why I like this? I curl my hand in the front of his shirt and pull him closer; then I’m nosing under his ear and a second later, I sink my teeth into the soft skin there and _suck_ , pleasing tautness blooming in the back of my mouth.

He groans, falling forward and pinning me to the wall like a lepidopterist pinning a butterfly to a shadow box, his hands tight on my hips where my slacks meet my shirt, and I sort of wish they would slip underne—

The door crashes open with a bang akin to a gun being fired and Vivian hollers, “BRYCE—”

We leap apart, wide-eyed and breathing hard—way too hard to even think about making excuses about having been doing something other than exactly what we’d been doing, and my heart starts pounding.

Her eyebrows go so far up her forehead they almost meet her hairline and I feel like I should be… panicking, but my mind is stuck, whirring a couple moments in the past, when I’d had Bryce’s skin under my lips.

“Woah,” she says. “What—”

“VIV!”

She backs up hastily, still staring, turning around and yanking the door shut after her before I can snap out of it. I think, faintly, I hear, “Shut up, Peter! He’s busy…”

Then I look back at Bryce, who’s a couple steps away, a pinkening bruise just below his ear, his eyes wide and already starting to frown.

“Aw, crap—” he says, right before I cross the space between us in zero seconds flat and fix my mouth _right there_ again, because I want to see his skin turn red and purple; he hands are back on my shirt, dragging me closer, and he gasps in my ear something that sounds like, “ _Fuck_ , S.J.—”

I spin him around and yank my mouth off his skin, pushing him towards the bedroom door—he staggers back a step—sure I’m never going to breathe properly again, his hickey is definitely darker now; and this— _he_ —is going to be in my wet dreams. “Hope that’s ‘nice’ enough for you,” I say, though I’m pretty sure it comes out more breathless and desperate than… snarky. “Also, I think your brother needs you.”

His lips are parted slightly, shining and red, and he lifts a hand to press a couple fingers against the bruise, his blown eyes meeting mine.

“Fuck,” he says, taking a step back even though he’s swaying forwards a little, as if he’s being pulled by a tide that might bring him back to me. He shakes his head like he needs to clear it. Grins, with teeth. “I’m _definitely_ going to want more of that later.” Then he disappears out the door, it _snick_ ing shut behind him, and I’m free to wobble and fall against the wall, sure that my legs are never going to hold me up again. How are we going to explain _that_?


	18. The tenth day of Christmas // Bryce

“Remind me—remind me again what you told your sister?” S.J.’s eyes are shut as he rocks into my weight, but his mouth is kind of lax and honestly I have to wonder how he’s still coherent.

“Uhhh, fuck. You’re seriously asking me this _now_?” My hands are currently under his shirt (when are they _not_ , nowadays), while _his_ fingers are digging into my waist and dragging me closer so he can grind, just barely, on my thigh; it’s an addictive thing, seeing him get all breathless against me, and also this way, _my_ dick is against his hip and not really in a bad place at all, because I can drag myself against the layers of cloth that makes up his pocket and pretend to myself that he doesn’t know. My blankets are all wrinkled up at the foot of the bed, probably jealous that they aren’t getting a piece of all the action, but I don’t give a fuck. S.J.’s all mine, right now.

“I want a—want a reminder. So I can remember _not_ to die of mortification.”

“You don’t look like you’re dying right now,” I point out, a little fuzzily, and I lift some of my weight off him so I can actually make an attempt at thinking; my monkey brain protests this because all friction on my dick stops. He doesn’t look like he’s dying: he’s all flushed and disheveled, the picture of _living_ , and I can feel his pulse humming under the hand I have on his chest; his breath coming fast and hard.

He whimpers out a sound that wouldn’t be too out-of-place coming from a porno, confused eyes flying open, grip tightening on my waist and trying to pull me back down. I don’t really resist all that hard—especially not when his hips buck up to meet me so eagerly and he moans when I grind down on him, curling my hands over his shoulders and kissing him until he’s gasping.

“I said, uh…. Adults are adults—” my voice cracks as he relocates a hand to my shirt and pulls me down closer so he can suck a stinging hickey on the side of my neck that makes me melt against him, “—fuck, S.J.—”

“Go on,” he says, though he’s just as breathless as me. He presses his fingers against the bruise lightly, and the soft, muted ache I get reminds me that it’s there and pretty much guarantees that there is currently no more blood going to my brain; I don’t know how there’d been enough blood present to make that hickey. If I hadn’t been already lying on him, I might’ve collapsed.

“Fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he breathes, which makes me wonder if he’s doing this on _purpose_.

I groan as the back of his other hand brushes the front of my pants, because there’s definitely things I want him to grab that he’s not grabbing right now. “You’re a _menace_.”

I could swear he’s smirking. “I never claimed to be anything but.”

My eyes get caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple as he plays with the bottom of my shirt, tugging gently. “Do you want me to take my shirt off?”

He goes bright pink. “I—um, yeah—but you still haven’t finished—”

I fix my lips around his Adam’s apple, sucking gently, and he cuts off on a squeak, grabbing me tightly with a hand on the back of my neck.

“Bryce—!”

I let my lips slip off him and lick a wet stripe up his skin while he squirms, pulling my hands out from under his shirt while still nosing up against his jaw. “I said—Adults are adults and… sometimes adults… need some alone time—Can I touch here?” I brush my hand over the bulge in his pants that indicates his trapped dick.

He nods enthusiastically while his mouth goes, “I thought you were taking your shirt off?”

“I thought I was trying to tell you what I told my sister? You keep distracting me.”

“Well,” he huffs, teeth tugging at my earlobe, “that’s not my fault. We didn’t—didn’t _do_ anything yesterday—”

I curl a hand in the waistband of his pants and try to rein in my self-control so I don’t start advertently begging him to just rip off my ear and then end up in the hospital looking like van Gogh. “God, you’re insatiable. And I think you’re—” he nips and I moan, “—you’re forgetting the bit where you spent… the night… in my bed?”

He growls, breath hot against the side of my face. “That doesn’t count. We didn’t even kiss that much. You were asleep ninety percent of the time.”

“Aw, I’m so glad you respect my consent and aren’t just using me for my body.” I turn my head to see him glaring, but I effectively cut off any snark he might’ve thrown back my way by sneaking my hand between his legs, wrapping my fingers around the outline of his dick.

He flushes and his mouth goes slack, eyes rolling back in a way that’s got me kneading against his dick just to see more of it. I don’t, though: he squeezes his eyes shut. A high, pitched noise climbs out of his throat, and honestly, I eat that shit right up because he barely ever makes noise when we’re doing this, and each one I wring out of him is like a prize I can pride myself on winning.

His hips cant up, shamelessly using me, and you know what? That’s fine. That’s _better_ than fine. He looks so good like this, coming apart with pleasure even while he’s obviously trying to fight it; there’s a little patch on his pants that’s starting to get damp from his leaking, and I can’t help but to stare at it hungrily, stare at my pale hand against the black cloth of his pants, teasing the ridge of his erection.

“Bryce—Bryce!” He grabs my wrist and, startled, I yank back.

He sobs as soon as my hand’s up, eyes flying open.

“You okay?”

He makes a weird, inarticulate noise, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and nodding vigorously.

“Okay,” I say. “So, about Viv—”

He pulls, more insistently, at my shirt, and I whip it off as I talk.

“I told her that sometimes people just need privacy—” Ugh, fuck, now his fingers are all over my torso, leaving sparks in their wake, why did I ever think this was a good idea right now, “—and that if she didn’t respect mine—and yours—I’m never gonna—”

He sits up and I nearly fall off him before he gets ahold of my arms and pulls me back over, scooting back and ducking down—and sucking on my nipple.

I yelp, gasping, hands going to his hair. “S.J.—!”

He pulls away. Glances up at me. Sticks out his tongue, a tiny pink point, and licks my nipple. “Never gonna what?”

I stare at him. He looks more than good like that: his eyes wide and glazed and fixed on my face, cheeks flushed, desperate to please. Or, realistically, desperate to _tease_ , the ass. “What?”

“You’re never going to what? If she doesn’t respect our privacy?” He licks my nipple again, then straightens up and captures my hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing my fingers gently.

“Um. —Um! Never going to, uh, give her money to do all those things she wants to do that Mom and Dad won’t let her do. Like the hair-dye thing.”

“Your parents don’t want you guys dying your hair?”

I cradle his head and press a finger against his lower lip, making it dimple and his eyes blow out; with one hand, he readjusts the cloth by his crotch. Then he parts his lips and sucks the tip of my finger into his mouth.

_Hot-wet-soft._

“Um—no—” I’m struggling to concentrate, because he’s looking me straight in the eyes as he bobs down to my second knuckle, curling his tongue around it; my finger has never been an erogenous zone before, but it definitely feels like it right now; I want to hook my fingers against his teeth and pull his mouth open and see if he’d be as good sucking dick as he would at sucking my finger, “—they say if we dye our hair, we’re not really Asian—S.J., is this _really_ the conversation you want to be having right now?” I don’t want to talk about the fuckery that is my parents’ weird beliefs when I could be talking about _fucking S.J._

He blinks and removes himself from my finger, not even taking care to be neat or anything: he just opens his mouth and pulls back so a threat of spit connects the tip of my finger to his lip; it swings, then breaks when he swipes his lips with his tongue, completely unapologetic. “Have they ever seen k-pop stars?” he asks innocently, mouth shining and wet, and I pounce on him.

He yelps as he falls back against the mattress, but he winds his fingers in my hair when I kiss him, hard enough to bruise, biting down on his lip. He sighs, hands twisting until my scalp sings with pain, distracting me from humping his leg until I come.

“Wanna suck your dick,” I mumble. I don’t think he hears—he’s busy trying to lick my tonsils—and I pull back as far as I can so I don’t get _more_ distracted. “S.J.”

“Mmm?” he bites at my lip, dragging it out before letting go, then opening his eyes. “Huh?”

It’s harder, when he’s looking at me, because even though he’s hard, he looks young and innocent, the way his hair flops and the way his eyes are so wide, and I feel like I shouldn’t be corrupting him with my depraved sexual ways. “Can I? Suck your dick?”

His mouth falls open, slack, like this was the last thing he’d been expecting me to say, a flush crawling up his neck to turn his cheeks pink.

“We don’t—I don’t have to,” I say quickly, sitting up, before he can proclaim me as a… creep? Weirdo? I feel more stressed with him in my bed than I’ve ever felt with someone in my bed before; I don’t know if it’s the pressure to not let him down, if this is his first time with a guy; or if I’m attached and don’t want him to think I’m terrible at sex; or something else. With a hookup, I’d just yank their pants down and go—we both would know what we were there for, why beat around the bush?—but I’ve got no idea what S.J.’s getting out of this. I probably should ask, but I don’t want to, because what if he’s just messing around? I can’t tell him, _Oh, hey, also, I know your_ thing _with Rachel didn’t go to well, but are you over that now and are you currently in the market for a relationship?_ , because _I_ ’m not in the market for a relationship! Right?

“Uhhh,” he says, articulately. He glances away, turning redder. “Can we, uh, can we wait?”

“Yeah, ’course!” I nearly fall over in my relief that he’s not going to kick me out of my own room for being too forward and too pushy.

“Sorry—” he says immediately, and I lean down to press a kiss to the side of his mouth.

“No need to apologize.”

He hums—and giggles, a little bit—and turns his head to lick at my lips. “But,” he whispers. “Can you, um…”

“Huh?”

He squeezes his eyes tightly shut. “Can you keep touching me?”

I grin, pulling back a little so I can see his face; he looks like he’s about to burn up, I don’t know why I find that so cute. “Yeah? Where?”

His eyes fly open and he glares. “Bryce!”

“What?” I lift my hands off him, showing off my palms and waggling my fingers. “I’m only going to touch you where you ask. Don’t want to be all rapey, you know?”

He growls in complaint. “Fine,” he snaps, very abruptly, like he wants to get it out before he chickens out. “Touch my dick, you bitch.”

I yelp, “Language!” and he snickers and tries to knee me; I barely manage to save myself by wrapping my hands around his thighs and yanking him closer to me, so I’m kneeling right between his legs and I have a great view of his crotch.

He squirms when I put my hand over his bulge. The damp spot from earlier is still there, and I want to hunch over and suck on it, to see what it would taste like. Want to mouth at his dick from over his clothes; make him writhe and beg for more. Is that too much?

“Bryce—”

“With pants or without pants?” I ask, rubbing against his dick gently; he starts rocking up slightly, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it; his eyes are still locked with mine but turning hazy from pleasure.

“Whuh?”

“Do you want to keep your pants on? And your underwear? Or do you want me to take them off? I don’t want to make you jizz in your pants if you’ve got, designer underwear or something.”

He goes crimson and rips his eyes away to stare at the ceiling, hands fisted in the bedspread. “I don’t have… designer underwear. Is that even a thing?”

“It’s a thing. Someone I modelled with once gave me a couple of Versace boxers for my birthday. They cost a hundred fifty. It was an odd experience. I definitely appreciated them, but I also went through the five stages of grief getting them.”

He makes a weird, strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh, but it cuts off into a breathy, stifled moan before I can really tell. “Okay—okay, um, off, that’s okay.”

“Yeah?” I undo his button and zipper faster than I’ve ever undone someone’s pants before, hoping he doesn’t notice my desperation. If he does, he’s polite enough not to make a comment about it.

I tug his pants down a little, not too desperate to go too fast, not when he’s involved: I want to see, almost, how long I can drag it out, and if he’ll get less self-conscious the longer this goes on.

I adjust his placket so it frames the bulge in his underwear. He’s still not looking at me; he has his eyes closed, now, like he’s thinking of England, though his cheeks are still stained. His dick is a long, hard line in his dark gray boxers, and I’ve got to wonder how he even has enough blood left to keep blushing.

I run a couple fingers up the line of his dick, slowly, watching his chest go up and down, rapidly, and I quickly figure out that his boxers are dark gray because they’re wet. Holy shit, not that I’d _expected_ him to leak like a faucet or anything, but that’s _hella_ hot.

“S.J.,” I whisper. Adjust myself so I’m leaning over him, curling my fingers around his dick through his underwear. “Look at me.”

He opens his eyes, gaze immediately seeking mine out, wetting his lips.

“You’re soaked,” I whisper, and his hips jerk, a muffled whimper slipping out from his throat. I let go of his dick and flatten my hand, rubbing up and down his dick a couple of times, slowly. You know, payback for when he was being a tease. He pants as he rocks up shamelessly, trying to get more friction, slipping and sliding.

I slide my hand down, under his pants, grazing his balls. “Were you having such a good time that you couldn’t help but to leak all over?”

“Bryce—!” His hands fly to my shoulders, fingernails digging in hard enough that they’re going to leave little crescent-shaped indents there; his eyes are wide and blown.

“What? You liked it when I was talking earlier. I can keep talking. Or does it bother you?” I let my own nails graze against his sack, then pull my hand out of his pants abruptly and skirt the edge of his boxers (Fruit of the Loom): the pale skin there, speckled with the faintest smattering of faded freckles. Fuck, that’s so _cute_. Do they get darker in the summertime? Does he get them on his face; on his shoulders?

He doesn’t answer my question, so I figure: “It’s okay,” I whisper, sliding my fingers under the band of his underwear while he scrapes at my skin with little kitten claws, sending pleasure sparking down to my dick. “I like it. I like it when you’re sloppy, you’re always trying so hard to be perfect. You don’t have to be perfect all the time.” His skin is already slick from a sinful amount of precome when I pull back his boxers; I would’ve sworn that he already messed himself if he weren’t harder than titanium or moaning oh-so-prettily for me when I wrap a tight hand around the swollen head of his cock.

“Oh god—”

“Do you like it?”

He gasps, bucking his hips desperately and sending his dick sliding through the tight sheathe of my hand with a filthy squelch that’s going to take me a while to forget.

“S.J.?” I pull his underwear down so the elastic’s under his balls, and pin his hips to the bed with one hand just to see what he’ll do.

He whines high in his throat and nods vigorously, trying to squirm up from under my weight so he can set his own pace, but I’m having fun going slow, drawing out each twist and pull of my hand until he’s panting, tongue poking out slightly like he’s dumb for it, and my fingers are getting warm with the pre he’s drizzling all over; I don’t even care that his clothes and my sheets are going to be a _mess_.

“You like it?”

“Yes—Bry, please, more—”

I groan, pleased, and drop down to nuzzle against the side of his face; if this move also lets me grind against his thigh a little bit, that’s just business, because he’s got me horny as hell, letting me see this side of him. He turns and bites me—no sucking, just _teeth_ —and the sharp pain makes me gasp; he takes advantage of this distraction to hump up frantically against my hand at a speed that suggests he’ll die if he doesn’t come.

“Shit,” I moan, tightening my grip until he keens breathlessly, hips stuttering, hands strangling my wrist.

“Oh _god_ , please—” his voice cracks, “—pleasepleaseplease—”

Like I really have any control to resist _that_ , when he’s one of those people who’re polite in bed, too: I jack him fast and hard until he’s arching off the mattress, crying out with his eyes rolling back, and coming a fucking, frankly, _ridiculous_ amount, which makes me wonder if he’s just pent-up, or if he’s got hyperspermia or something. Either way, it’s the hottest thing I’ve seen in a while. He goes limp, after: like the pleasure’s been all wrung out of him. His hips twitch; I draw at his softening cock until he squirms away, protesting, rivulets of come sliding down the slope of his flat belly to pool against my sheets. That’s going to be gross in, like, one minute, but right now his debauchery is glorious as he watches me, catching his breath, his streaked sides shining wetly and his eyes going wide and shocked when I wink at him and lick his come off my fingers.

He tackles me before I even have the chance to finish, and suffice to say: I _also_ get to come, and not by my own hand. I also get to do a load of laundry.


	19. The eleventh day of Christmas // S.J.

“It’s snowing again.”

“Mm, is it?” Bryce rolls over onto his stomach without looking and slaps a bare arm around my waist like he’s a seatbelt, his lips dragging at my shoulder.

“Yeah, look outside.” Out his window, snow dust scuds through the air as the wind goes crazy, rattling bare tree branches like they’re bones. The sky is cloudy and grey, and I can’t help but to be worried that my flight tomorrow might get delayed. Part of me thinks this might be exciting: I would get to spend more time with Bryce; but my rational half knows this would be a disaster: I’m supposed to go back to work the day after I get back to New York.

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles, burying his face in the mattress.

I turn my head to look at him, wrapping a hand around his arm around my waist and tugging him closer until he’s against my side. I’m honestly trying to guide him _away_ from my armpit, because I don’t know how that smells right now, even if I’ve got a t-shirt on, but he’s determined to do whatever he wants, as usual, and shoves his head right there, nearly dislocating my arm while he tries to fashion my body into his pillow.

“Ow! Bryce. Geez, can’t you just… stay still?”

“Gotta be comfortable.” He rests his ear on my shoulder and looks at me, giving me a perfectly angelic grin, one of his arms curled up between his chest and my side. The other he pulls out of my grip, sliding his fingers right by the waistband of my joggers. I squirm involuntarily; not because I’m ticklish, but because I can _definitely_ remember, um, what exactly his hands can do.

“This okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah—um—Bryce, you want _more_ sex?” Because, like, after we figured out yesterday that getting each other off was a plausible thing that could’ve been happening from the very beginning—but _hadn’t_ , for some reason—we’d been spending _way_ too much time doing it. Also, for someone who’s twenty-eight, Bryce has a terrifyingly short refractory period.

He pouts. “Doctor, I’m just so _horny_ all the time! Do you have any medicine to help with that?”

I cough out a laugh that quickly becomes a very undignified noise as his hand slips under my joggers and skims ever-so-lightly over the thin cloth of my boxers, part of me perking up in interest over the proceedings, which I’m sure Bryce can feel.

I flush at the obviousness of it, but he doesn’t seem to care, sliding his hand down my underwear with a sinful smile while I just sit there, like a dead fish, trying hard not to squirm enough to throw him off me, because I feel like that would be pretty rude, considering… what he’s doing for me right now.

He wraps his fingers around my dick and I have to bite my lip, hard, to keep myself from moaning like a whore.

He rolls over a bit, so more of his weight is on me and his elbow is near my armpit, propping himself up so he can look at me proper. “Fuck, S.J.,” he says, sliding his palm down my length and cupping my balls, rolling them together like they’re… like they’re baoding balls or something, and I’m pretty sure my brain is melting out my ears while it tries to process how nice this feels. “You’re leaking already,” he whispers, and I’m pretty sure I go crimson over the mortification of it. He doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing; it sounds deliciously filthy coming out of his mouth. Sometimes the things he says while we do this make me wonder if he should ever be allowed around children.

“S-so?” I manage to get out, trying to grind a little against the inside of his wrist while he continues doing… whatever… to my balls.

He huffs through a grin, eyes glittering as he watches me, like he’s an incubus and needs to feed off my pleasure. “Are you always so exuberant?” he asks, and I watch the way his tongue flicks out at his lips, wishing he’d lean down and kiss me; make me forget my name. “I feel like I should… strip you and take you to the tub every time we do this. That way, when you mess yourself, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

I can’t help the strangled moan, too loud, that pushes out of my mouth. The way he says it has me desperate to hear more: he makes it sound like me coming is inevitable, it’s something he _knows_ he can do to me, it doesn’t even matter if I want it or not; I’m something for him to play with, a messy enough toy that he needs to start thinking about clean-up before we’ve even started.

“I—I won’t,” I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut, but this just makes the sensations harder to ignore when he tugs oh-so-gently at my balls, then lets go. I moan in protest.

“You won’t what?” He skims his palm back up my erection and I force myself not to buck up into his touch like an eager… slut. “Come?”

I shake my head, then _have_ to open my eyes. I have to see him.

He’s staring at me like I’m a puzzle or something—like he’s trying to figure me out—still doing that absurdly unsatisfying, light up-and-down with his palm against the underside of my dick, not touching me _properly_ , just getting me all ramped up on frustration.

Then, all of a sudden, he leans down so close to my face that I nearly go cross-eyed trying to keep him in my sights and in focus. “Do you… _want_ to come?”

I blink at him, trying to pull back, but there are pillows at the back of my head so I can’t really do that. His hands are still. “Um. Yes?” Is that not why we’re doing this? To, uh, get each other off? I shift my hips a little, impatient, trying to get him to start moving again, and he puts his free hand on my cheek, his thumb close to my lips. I open my mouth and lick the tip of it, to see if that’ll egg him on.

He squints at me. “Do you—uh, just so I don’t mess up, here,” he says, his thumb inching closer to my mouth, “what… exactly… are you liking out of this?”

I flush and try to speak with his thumb dimpling my lip. “Um, what?”

“You’re being very loud,” he says, so easily that I can’t help but to squirm at the implication that I’m a little shameless. “And is that… _this_ —” he moves his hand on my dick slightly—like, _half_ a centimetre, fuck— “—or is that…” he narrows his eyes a little, “…me… talking?”

I clear my throat, trying not to burn up. At the very least, at least he doesn’t say, — _or is that me humiliating you?_ I literally can’t look at him: what am I supposed to say, _Oh: actually, I really liked it when you treated me like an object_? Because men— _people_ —aren’t supposed to like that, are they? Who wants to be—who wants to be a _thing_ , manhandled around?

 _Sick, sick, sick_ , chants my dad in my head, which is partially drowned out by all the dopamine in my brain right now, so a very enthusiastic thanks to Bryce for that.

“S.J.? You okay?”

I stare at the ceiling. I’d usually hope for Jesus to beam me up to Heaven at this point, only right now I’m fairly sure that I’m going to Hell. “The… um. Second? Thing?” I can hear Bryce breathing in the momentary silence, and I almost want to rip myself away and go hide somewhere.

“Yeah?” says Bryce, curling his hand a little, like this is a reward for me, and I can’t help but to whimper when the tips of his fingers skim my skin. “What did you… like about that?”

“Oh God, please don’t make me say it,” I burst out, pretty sure I’m about to die of mortal embarrassment and honestly, I’m very surprised that my erection hasn’t wilted yet.

“Okay,” Bryce allows. “But if you’re not going to say it, I’m going to have to guess. Yeah?” He draws back a little, his hand slipping entirely out of my pants, and I want to cry at the loss. What the shit, am I on my man-period or something?

“Fine,” I think I manage to get out, which probably isn’t a very… _enthusiastic_ answer, but I can actually feel the heat of my cheeks, I’m blushing so hard.

“Okay,” says Bryce, again, and then he pulls away entire, his heat ripping away from me, and gets off the bed.

I turn and stare at him. “What?” Fuck, what have I done, is he so grossed out by me that he’s leaving?

“Get up,” he says.

I sit up faster than I think I’ve ever sat up in my life, yanking my shirt down and trying to cover the bulge in my pants, totally ready to chase after him and apologize and insist that I’m not a terrible person. “What? Why?”

“We’re going to the tub,” Bryce says calmly. “And then you’re going to strip and get in, and then I’m going to jerk you off.”

And I… I stare at him, gaping, my hands still on the hem of my shirt, because I don’t know what else to do. “What?” I think I whimper.

“Chop-chop, S.J., we don’t have all day.” He grins like the devil and flops over so that he can rest his elbows on the bed, spreading his legs and waggling his butt from side to side. “Well, we do, but I think it would be more prudent to have a bunch of orgasms throughout the day as opposed to just waffling around on this _one_.”

I get off the bed.

His hand immediately goes to the small of my back, pushing me towards his bathroom, and I let myself be guided, because I guess… I guess I’m easy like that.

 _What are you going to do about it?_ I challenge my dad’s poltergeist.

He’s silent.

“Alright, time to get naked,” Bryce says when we reach the tub-shower: a porcelain bathtub set into the wall, surrounded on three sides by marbled brown tiles even though the rest of the bathroom—the drywall—is painted white. I fuss around a bit, then pull my shirt over my head and just kind of… hold it, not sure where to put it.

“All of it,” Bryce says, taking my shirt from me. “You’re not going to need it.”

“Um—” I fidget, not quite sure why I’m so _hard_ , or why he’s _watching_ me undress. _You’re not going to need it_ … because, um, I’ll be coming? The thought makes me blush. _Because you’ll be coming so much that you’re going to leak through your pants again, like last time, when you humped him until you came. You were so wet that there was a stain on_ his _pants when you were done._

“Come on,” he prompts.

“Are you—are you going to turn around?”

“I want to watch,” he says blatantly, like this is a normal thing for him; his eyes are still practically glued to me, a faint smile playing around his mouth. I’m sure I flush bright red at this, my shaking hands going to the edge of my joggers. “You’ll tell me if you don’t like it, right?” Bryce says, out of the blue, sounding slightly more concerned than his earlier, amused tone. “You can say ‘no’ or ‘stop.’ Or I _can_ turn around, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine—”

_Please watch me._

_Debase me._

_Make me… make me ashamed._

I feel like I might puke from nervousness and excitement all at once. When I glance up, he’s searching my face carefully, his expression almost as masked as the first night I’d kissed him. Then his lips twitch slightly—just a tiny bit arrogantly. “What are you waiting for, then?”

I flush. Hook my thumbs into my waistband and slide my joggers down. Hand them over to him when I step out of them. He takes them without a word. He doesn’t say, _Underwear now_ , like my mom might, if I needed a reminder; he just waits. Quiet, my clothes slung over his arm, like he’s a butler. It might’ve been believable for my brain if I weren’t rock-hard right now just from… from being asked to undress in front of someone. In front of _Bryce_. He’s practically already naked—he’d been lazing around in his boxers, in bed—and I don’t know if I’m humiliated by knowing I don’t look… as _good_ as him, or humiliated by the fact that he’s currently staring at my dick and I’m trying to cover myself up.

He takes my boxers. Jerks his head to the tub. “In.” It’s so succinct; curt; brusque. Like… I’m a dog, or something. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse, but I can feel my pulse pounding through my body and precome leaking from my dick, sliding down its length like a drop of sweat, or a tear.

I get in the tub, not really looking at him, and kind of stand there, awkwardly.

“Siddown,” he says, folding my clothes and setting them down on the sink counter. I know the tub isn’t dirty or anything—I’ve cleaned it, which Bryce probably knows—but I still flinch when I sit, because it’s _cold_ against my skin. I feel inexplicably bare like this.

I look at Bryce imploringly as he folds himself into a sit right outside the tub, his arms propped up on the side of it. “Wait—Aren’t you going to—”

“I’m not getting in,” he says, as if the idea’s unthinkable. “I don’t want to get covered in your come. That’s for _you_ , if you can’t hold it in.”

I bite back a whimper at the suggestion that I’m not going to be able to control myself. He’s probably right. Despite the pleasure I get from it, though, there’s still that nagging worry at the back of my head, telling me he thinks I’m icky—

“I’ll get in after,” Bryce says, as if he can read my mind. “We can run a bath, yeah? We’ll rinse you off first, though. I don’t want to be sitting around in cum-water.”

I snort a little laugh which promptly turns into a squeak and dies a swift death as he reaches over and puts his hand back on my dick.

He just sits there, holding it, his grip tight and cool.

He looks at my dick. Looks at me.

There’s a little pause.

“When was the last time you came?” he asks conversationally. “Before me.”

“W-what?” I whimper, trying not to thrust up in his grip. _Have to get a hold of myself, have to get a hold of myself, have to get a hold of myself. Prove him wrong: you’re_ not _a desperate animal._

“When was the last time you came?”

I swallow thickly. Look away from his eyes, which are suddenly too intense, like they’re going to start boring a hole through me, but certain parts of my body don’t have qualms with that, it seems, because my dick throbs in his grasp. “I—I don’t know. Not _super_ long ago. Back in New York? Before I got here?” It’s not like I don’t jerk off, but I hadn’t jerked off at _Mum_ ’s place, because that felt like a cardinal sin, and I’ve been doing my absolute best also not to jerk off here, because I’m a guest, and that _also_ feels like a cardinal sin.

“So, a couple of weeks, then,” says Bryce, like this is a normal conversation to be having while his hand is wrapped around me and I’m sitting naked in a dry bathtub. He tightens his grip, without moving, and I dig my nails harder into the skin at my hips to keep from making noise. “When you first came,” he said, “I thought it was a lot. But I figured, y’know, maybe you just hadn’t done anything in a really long time. But a couple of weeks isn’t really that long.”

He’s not looking at me anymore; he’s looking at my dick, and his hand is moving up at an _excruciatingly_ slow pace. I stare rather desperately at his profile, but he doesn’t even glance my way; like I’m not worthy of his gaze.

“But the second time, you came, like, the same amount.” His hand slips, agonizingly tight, over the head of my dick and I bite back a cry, my hips lurching without my permission, a dollop of precome oozing out of my tip, wetting his fingers.

He slides his hand off my dick entirely, without going back down, and I nearly sob. What? Why isn’t he—

“And the third time, too,” he says. He fastens his hand around the base of my dick and starts the slow journey up, again, his hand easily slicked with how much I’m leaking. “And the fourth time. Is that pretty normal for you?” He’s still not looking at me, and he almost sounds like a doctor, like this.

“Uh—” I try not to thrust into his grip and relocate one of my hands to the side of the tub, near where his free arm is resting. I want to hold him but I feel like I shouldn’t. “—I don’t—I don’t know?” The last time I’d had sex with an actual person had been in uni, and since then I’ve been in the shower, usually with my eyes closed.

Bryce hums, like he’s just learned a particularly interesting fact. “I like it. You leaking for me all the time. Getting so horny that you can’t hide your arousal.” His hand slips off the tip of my dick, a thin, shining strand of pre connecting the two for a moment before he wraps his fist around my base again. Tight. Sloppy. My fault, it’s my fault I’m so easy and getting wet like a… like a woman.

Precome shines around my dick like it’s lube, slipping down in rivulets when Bryce lifts his hand up, sliding down my balls, tickling, before it drips onto the bottom of the tub at an unsteady pace.

“I like playing with you, too.”

I whimper softly and let my head fall back against the tile as he fastens his hand around the base of my dick, again. My mouth goes a bit slack at the tight pleasure. He’s not letting me _thrust_ , and now whenever his hand climbs slowly up, my hips try to follow him until he pushes me back down.

“Stop moving, S.J.,” he whispers, one hand on my hip and holding me down, the other running over the head of my cock as he pulls up, up, up, my slick falling over his fingers and dripping onto the tub.

“I—I need to—” _need to come—_

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, gently, like it’s his job to educate me into knowing better; like I’m foolish for thinking something other than him. I don’t know if I _can_ think anymore; my mind’s starting to get a bit hazy. “You’re not here so you can come, right now. You’re here so I can have fun. Should I put the plug in the tub and see if you make a little puddle?”

An unprecedented noise leaks out of my mouth and my eyes fly open so I can stare at him, scarlet, but he’s still looking at my dick, like he’s talking to _it_ and not me.

“Yes? No? I could smear it on you, after, so you can see just how much you weren’t able to control yourself.” He looks almost dreamy as he teases me, and a second later, he glances over. Pulls my dick down, between my legs, and then lets go suddenly so that it slaps against my stomach, angry and red, leaving the skin right under my bellybutton slick. “You’re practically halfway there,” he says, and I whimper.

He hums and smiles and, before I can flinch, wipes his wet palm on the side of my stomach, like I’m nothing more than a rag for him.

“Look, you’re soaking and I’ve barely even done anything. So wet from just a handjob.” He tilts his head like a little curious bird while I try to thrust up into open, yielding air. “Should I keep going?”

“Yes!” I sob. “Please. Please don’t stop.” I don’t know if I mean the… the handjob, or his words.

“Why not?”

“I—I like it.” I can’t understand why he’s not _touching_ me anymore.

“What do you like about it?”

“E-everything.” Sure, it’s a cop-out, easy answer, but I can’t really do any heavy thinking right now.

“Everything?” says Bryce, moving my hand so he can sit on the edge of the tub, smirking; he reaches down and takes me in hand again, drawing upwards, _again_. “That’s a lot, though. Do you like me playing with you?”

I nod frantically as his hand nears the head of my dick, hips twitching; as if he likes this answer, he tightens his grip and _drags_ down so that I cry out, bucking.

“Your cock is drooling, S.J.,” he says. “I almost think that’s where your brain is leaking out. You look brainless right now; cross-eyed.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and shake my head, but I can come up with nothing to refute this claim.

He wipes his hand on me again.

“No?”

“I’m not,” I whimper, opening my eyes so I can stare, red-cheeked, at my wet stomach.

“Yes you are,” he says, confident. “Your cock is so big and dumb and heavy. You come so much, I bet you’ll come all your thoughts out, and then you’ll just sit here, stupid and horny, ready for me to play with you whenever I want. Yeah?”

I think I’m moaning—making too much noise—but I can’t _stop_ , because his hand feels too good and his words are too addictive. Before I can stop myself, I’m saying, “I’m—I’m stupid—”

Bryce’s eyes go wide and he licks his lips. I can see his erection in his underwear when he adjusts himself; a second later, a terrible grin slides onto his face. “Uh huh? Tell me more.”

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say that isn’t just repeating his words so I stare at him, glazed, too helpless to do anything but rock urgently into the tight cage of his fist and listen to the horrid squelch that each thrust makes as my dick keeps dribbling.

He whines. “ _Mmgh_ , you’re so pretty.”

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. No, not pretty, _handsome_. Men are supposed to be handsome, right? And I’m… I’m a man—

“Yesss.” It takes me a second to realize he’s jerking himself off, too, one hand wrapped around his dick through his boxers, stroking leisurely, like he has all the time in the world to be here. “My pretty little doll. Isn’t that right?”

I nearly sob at the words. “I’m—for you?”

_Use me._

“That’s right,” he hisses a little, head thrown back and eyes glittering. “All for me.” He looks like he might lose his balance at any minute and topple onto me; he must realize this because he takes his hand off his dick and uses it to balance against the shower wall. The faintest wet spot is visible on the dark fabric of his underwear—not like me, I’m… _in the tub_ because I can’t control myself. _Bryce_ can control himself, he’s sliding off the edge to sit back on the other side of the bath, grinning, not even putting his hand back on his dick while I’m here: sure I would die if he let go of me.

It’s humiliating.

“Look at you,” he says. “I’m so glad I had this idea. I’m the fuckin’ _best_.”

Normally I would probably tell him to check his ego, but he twists his hand right under the head of my dick and I can’t do words anymore, just incoherent noises that have his cheeks flushing with arousal.

“You think you can keep from coming?” he asks. I’ve no idea how he can keep talking; how he can keep coming up with these things while he unravels me, bit by bit. “You said you wouldn’t, earlier. Wouldn’t come.”

“I—I won’t,” I say, though I only have vague recollection of this promise.

Bryce hums, pleased. Then: “Little liar,” he whispers softly, though his voice wobbles a little; he stills his hand at the top of my dick, encasing the crown in immobile, tight heat. “I don’t think you’ll be able to help yourself.”

“No—no, I will!” I promise, ignoring that I’m trying to thrust into his hand and he isn’t _letting_ me. I _need_ it, I’m such a whore, my parents tried not to raise a whore but I still turned out one. Bryce has me helpless.

“You can barely control yourself right now,” Bryce points out. He twists his hand just barely and moves his thumb over my slit; he circles there, gently, for what feels like years, until I’m almost crying, drenching his hand and dripping off of it, the puddle under my crotch extending into a rivulet that winds for the drain.

Oh God, what’s wrong with me; why does it feel so good?

“I’m glad I put you in the tub,” he says. “Damn, your mess is enormous. You’d be soaked through your sweats if we stayed in bed. Probably through my sheets, too. I think I’ve done more bedding laundry in the past day than I have in the past few months.”

My cheeks flush—I’ve never wanted to be an inconvenience, but here I am, making him work because I can’t control myself—

“I thought it was hot, though. Yesterday,” says Bryce. “You grinding on me so hard that you got _me_ wet. I kind of wonder if I riled you up enough, if you’d drip like you are now, only right through your pants. Just stand there, all embarrassed, making my floors all dirty.” He twists his hand cruelly and jerks down on my dick and I go slack with the pleasure, wilting until I almost take the shape of the tub, like I’m made of liquid, myself. “We’ll try that another time, though. Maybe.” He moves his hand faster—bless him, _fuck_ —until I’m sobbing, pleasure crashing through me, and grabbing for his arm in case he dares stop or pull away.

“I thought you’re not going to come, S.J.,” he taunts me, squeezing my length like he’s going to milk everything out of me without my consent, and I’m panting, trying to stop myself from using him like a cocksleeve, but my body’s on different orders right now.

“I’m trying—I—I—”

“You have to try _harder_.” But it’s like, as he tells me this, he goes a little faster, just barely grazing my skin with his nails and making me shudder, knowing I’m going to fall apart—there’s nothing I can do about it.

“I _am_ —I am, I am, I am—”

“Lying again, S.J.?”

There’s something about the way he says it, like this was inevitable from the start—it was always going to happen like this—that has me crying out and coming; O mercy of small mercies, he keeps his hand moving and I chase peaks of pleasure, mind wiped entirely blank for several blessèd seconds.

By the time my brain starts to stutter back online, Bryce is leaning desperately over the edge of the tub, his hand still on my dick, globs of come stretching and sliding down his fingers. “Kiss?”

I whimper and lean forward, going vaguely in the same direction of his face; thank God he takes initiative and puts his lips on mine, because I don’t think I would’ve been able to find them. His lips, that is. My brain is still pleasantly fuzzy as the last washes of orgasm endorphins flow through me, and he lets me rock shallowly into his grip until my dick starts to sting from overstimulation and he lets go, licking and nibbling at my mouth.

“Was it good?”

“Mnh hm.” I crack my eyes open for a second, but everything is blurry, so I just close them again and fasten a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer until he lurches and swears into my mouth.

“Fuck—” he moans, and I remember he hasn’t gotten off yet.

I open my eyes. He’s so close he’s blurry— _because we’re kissing_ ; I smack myself mentally—and I jerk back, nearly braining myself on tile. His makes a weird noise and pulls back as well, then yanks me forward a bit so I don’t accidentally kill myself while my brain’s still offline.

“Shit—dude—”

“’M okay,” I think I manage to get out.

He blinks a couple times and then nods shortly, like he gets it and now he has other things to focus on; his non-messy hand is in his underwear and he’s standing on his knees by the side of the tub, eyes roving hungrily over me now that our faces are no longer pressed together.

“Fuck—S.J., you’re a _mess_ —”

I stare at him, still floating on endorphins. “Come on me.”

His eyes snap to my face. “What?”

“Come on me.”

His mouth goes slack with surprise, eyes glazing over a bit. “You sure?”

I must nod, or something, because his cheeks flush and then he’s standing up, stripping out of his underwear in zero seconds flat and sliding over the edge of the tub to get in with me, kneeling over my legs, his hand flying on his dick—I thought it might be weird to stare at another dude’s cock, but it’s just—not weird. Maybe all my feelings got fucked out of me.

He groans, low in his throat, then leans forward; I wind my arms behind his head as he kisses me, and a moment later, I feel _hot-wet-slippery_ add to my mess as he moans into my mouth.

Fuck—my mess.

Bryce nibbles at my lips while I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the rush of heat to my cheeks and the rush of shame that launches itself up my throat. I must look so disgusting, and I’d been so complacent for it; let him do whatever, and now I look gross and I’m an inconvenience; why is he even here with me?

I pull away from him abruptly, turning my head, gagging on this humiliation.

“S.J.?”

He sounds so concerned—why’s he concerned for me? I don’t deserve that, I’m—what, depraved and wanton, and he’s a _normal person_ —

“Hey—dude—look at me for a sec.”

I can’t, I can’t I can’t I can’t, because I’m a mess and he’s so very much _not_ ; he’s always perfect, and why had I ever thought that I could be good enough to be in his perfect world with him? I want to get out—run away—but he’s almost sitting on top of me and I’m naked and covered in—covered in _jizz_ , because apparently the moment I get the barest hint of attention, I turn into a whore and let people do whatever they want to me.

Bryce swears in the distance somewhere as I go spiralling, and I feel his weight shift, like he’s getting up; feel the movement of his ankles as he balances himself in the tub around me—

_You inconvenience—_

—and I can’t look, because if I open my eyes, I’ll see—I’ll see what happened, and I don’t want proof of what a horrible person I’ve been. Something turns on—the tap?—and a second later, I yelp as cold water patters over my feet, trying to scramble away but slipping on the—on the grossness in the tub. _My_ grossness.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re going to clean up real quick, okay?”

I think I shake my head—or maybe I nod—I don’t know—and then I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, fingers slipping up to scritch at the bottom of my hairline, which feels nice even though I don’t deserve nice; this makes me want to sob, because he’s such a great person— _how?_ —and I’m… fuck, what did I do, I listened to him verbally degrade me and then _came_ from it, like some sicko, and then asked him to come on me, too, like I didn’t have any pride or anything.

“You’re doing great,” Bryce tells me as the water warms up; he must be holding a hand shower, because the spray moves up my legs, drumming gently against my skin, washing away my sins. “You’re doing so good.”

I think I actually start crying, then, while he murmurs to me, cradling my head and pressing kisses to my cheeks and eyes, rinsing away any proof of what we’ve done.

“Okay, up now,” though he more pulls me up than I actually use my legs to stand up; I’m practically leaning on him. The water shuts off and I think somehow I get out of the tub without killing myself, though it would probably be better if I were dead, at this point; I’m trying to apologize but he hushes me with soft fingers over my mouth, somehow managing to dry me with a soft towel, because I’m useless.

His bed, when he guides me out of the bathroom, is a worse reminder of what we’ve done—what we could’ve done if we’d stayed there, if I’d stayed there instead of putting myself in a _bathtub_ for sex, what had I been _thinking_ —but he escorts me past it; or maybe he carries me, I’m not sure anymore, everything _hurts_ and even though he’s telling me I’m wonderful, I know I’m not.

He takes me to my room—the guest room—the room where I’m staying. Wraps me up in the duvet and holds me against his chest, whispering the promise that everything will be alright, while I feel like my life is coming apart at the seams. How will my co-workers treat me after they find out about this? My boss? What if I get fired?

The thoughts bring a fresh wave of tears. Bryce runs his fingers through my hair gently until I cry myself out and just sit there, like a devastated little caterpillar, cocooned in blankets too nice for me on a bed too nice for me being hugged by a man too nice for me.

“You’re fabulous, you know that?” is the first thing I remember him whispering in my ear since the bathroom.

I sniff loudly, shaking my head and drying my tears on the purple duvet cover, not letting myself curl closer to him because he doesn’t need to get fucked up by someone like me.

“You are. You’re smart and funny and snarky as hell—the king of snark—and handsome, too…”

I almost start crying, again, at that: I want to say, _I thought I was_ pretty, but words aren’t working for me yet.

“The handsomest man,” Bryce repeats, like he can sense my hesitation, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek, and I can’t help but to lean toward it a bit, because I want him to help the pain go away. “And you’re doing so well.”

“I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Shh, no need,” Bryce says. “No need to be sorry, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He pulls the duvet around my shoulders and I give in like the weakling I am and lean against him; let him bear some of my weight. He loops his arms around my chest, twining his fingers together so I’m tied there; as if I’d ever want to willingly leave, _hah_!

I hiccup, taking a stuttering breath in.

“What do you need from me?” Bryce asks. “Tell me how I can help.”

I shake my head, squeezing my stinging eyes shut so I don’t start bawling. _Can’t you see? Just having you here is enough. Please, don’t leave me, don’t leave me here alone!_ “C-can you just—tell me… everything’s gonna—gonna be okay?”

I think he sighs in relief. “Of course it is,” he murmurs, gifting more kisses to me. “Of course everything’s going to be alright. Nobody’s done anything wrong. Yeah? This is private time, between you and me, and I’ll never say a word to anyone.” He pulls the duvet back up when it slips as I curl up between his legs, resting my head against his chin. “And then tomorrow you’re flying back to New York. You get to see your city again, and you’ll be out of Minnesota, you won’t even have to worry about it anymore.”

Yeah, but I _can’t_ not worry about Minnesota anymore, can I? Because that’s where Bryce lives, and Bryce… Bryce is…

I don’t bother trying to articulate whatever that emotion is, because I’m sure it’ll only have me feeling worse.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, sniffling. Pathetically.

“Why are you sorry?” He runs his hands behind my ear, tucking away strands of damp hair and pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

“For doing… for doing that stuff. In the bathroom.” _I’ll clean it up, I’ll do your laundry for you, I didn’t mean to be so thoughtless—_

“ _I_ ’m sorry,” says Bryce, “if I pushed you. I should’ve checked in—”

“You were fine!” I protest, the nausea of embarrassment fading, but still present as a knot in the very back of my throat that I can’t quite swallow down. “I’m sorry I was—was gross, and weird—”

“Not gross and weird at all,” says Bryce. He keeps… _kissing_ me, and it’s making me feel warm and fuzzy inside, which I’m mildly angry about, because I’m supposed to be feeling horrible—to learn my lesson. “I thought you were very hot. Fuck, if you could’ve seen yourself—”

I squirm.

He redirects. “You were wonderful. And all those things I said? I don’t mean them, you know. That was only for the moment, yeah? You definitely don’t exist only to please me.”

I swallow thickly as he buries his fingers in my hair, gentle tingles spreading down my spine. “No?”

“Of course not, dude. And there’s no shame at all in what gets you off. At the end of the day, we’re all just a bunch of hormones stuffed into a meat sack. Everyone has the same desires, and what gets you off is just that.”

I hum and sniff, again, fidgeting until he wraps his arms around me again and rests his chin on my head, feeling warm and wrapped up and safe.

I think he murmurs, “You’ll always be perfect to me,” but my eyes are slipping shut, and I’m drifting off into drowsy darkness.


	20. The twelfth day of Christmas // Bryce

“So.”

“So.”

“This is it.”

“Well…”

“Well what?”

“I mean, not really. You have my phone number.”

“True.”

“Are you going to call?”

“You want me to call?”

“I mean, you can text, too.”

“Get that smirk off your face.”

“What smirk?”

“I’m not—I’m not going to _sext_ you.”

“The thought didn’t cross my mind, until you brought it up.” He splutters rather magnificently, and I add: “And—does that mean you’d rather have _phone sex_?”

“ _Bryce_!” S.J. hisses. “We’re in _public_!”

“You started it,” I pout. Which is not the most mature, but… I’m allowed to be off my vibe a little bit. We’re at the MSP airport, in front of customs; a few steps away is the Caribou Coffee that Jackie had been complaining about, three years ago, right before we saw Michael off for Japan. Standing here, I can remember exactly how he and Lucky kissed each other; how they’d looked at each other after, like they were the only things they could see.

The odd thought that I don’t want something similar to happen to me and S.J. crosses my mind, before I remember that we aren’t in a relationship. We haven’t even defined our relationship. We don’t have a relationship! What are we? Friends? Fuck buddies? Well, not fuck buddies anymore, because he’s going back to New York, and that’s half a continent away; plus, he doesn’t seem to have a very favorable opinion on long-distance sex, _quod vide_ his sputtering.

“I did _not_ ,” he says, equally as mature, of course.

“It’s okay,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “I know it’s tough for you to admit.”

He makes an indignant noise and elbows me; I grunt. He’s all bones, that one.

“But you will call, though, right? Or text? Like, actually, even without the se—” he smacks me and I squawk, “Fine, fine!” Shit, I already hate that I’m sounding so needy. “Stay in touch? I’d like to. It’s been great getting to know you again.”

His cheeks pinken and glances away, the tiniest nervous smile on his face. “Um, yeah. ’Course, if you want me to.”

“Hell yeah I want you to,” I grin, and don’t even feel bad about it, because his resulting dark blush is adorable.

He ducks his head momentarily, bangs falling in his eyes. I want to coo over him; I also want to throw myself around him and cling to him and beg him never to leave. For no reason in particular.

“Hit up Rachel, too,” I say gently; he stiffens a little bit. “Your two-week quarantine of no talking is almost over, isn’t it? See if you guys can work out your problems.”

“She probably hates me,” he mumbles, fidgeting, his fingers playing with the zipper on his coat; though it’s a comfortable temperature here, he hasn’t taken it off, and I’ll admit I get some sort of carnal glee seeing him in the clothes I’ve bought him. Like I’ve claimed him.

“Nah. She’s probably fine and misses talking to you; I know I would if I had to put this on hold. Stop always assuming the worst.” I nudge at him a little. He casts his eyes to the ceiling, but there’s a little smile on his face. “Yeah? Text her?”

“Okay.”

“And text your mom, too, once you’re up in the air. Actually,” I say, twisting around, “I’m surprised we haven’t seen her here already.”

He cringes. “Wouldn’t… be the first time,” he says.

“She doesn’t usually drop you off?”

“No, um—” color creeps up his neck and makes his cheeks blotchy, “—she used to, but then she’d always… start wailing really loud and holding onto me and airport security would have to get her off of me and I thought people were going to start assuming weird stuff, so I usually take a cab nowadays. I can’t really afford to miss my flights all the time, you know?”

“Uh, yeah, definitely.” I add _that_ to the mental list of crazy that Brandi is, and stuff I _should_ not do. “No worries. I will not make you drag me through customs. I may weep liberally at your departure, however. Catch me on the runway, waving, like those Victorian people who used to wave off ships.”

He coughs to hide a laugh. “I think… you should probably stay away from the runway. Safety measures, you know?”

“Denied. I’m faster than the planes, they’d never run me over.”

“Wow. You must have a great body to run faster than takeoff speed.”

I waggle my eyebrows at him. “You _know_ I have a great body, you’ve seen it.”

He buries his face in his hands, fringe falling over his fingers. “Oh my god, _Bryce_.”

“Sorry, I’ll stop.” I can’t help smirking just a little bit, though, at how flustered he gets.

He scrubs at his face for a second (adorably) and when he puts his hands down, I can tell that he’s trying not to smile too hard, his eyes flickering off in the distance to the baggage check-in and the colorful signs and the thousands of people, milling about.

“I’ll text her,” he says, and it takes a moment for me to remember where we’re at with the conversation. “Maybe not in the air, though. I’ll have airplane mode on. You know, like they instruct? Because obviously otherwise the plane would turn into a great big ball of fire.”

I snort.

“But, um, thank you.” He glances over to me, eyes meeting mine. “For, um, letting me stay. At your place.”

“Anytime. Seriously.”

 _Oh my_ god _!_ I yell at myself in my head, _Stop being so_ desperate _! He’s probably never going to come back here again because of that shit-show with his mom!_

“Thanks.” He ducks down for a second, grinning. “Obviously, you didn’t have to—it was super nice, and—”

“Dude, seriously, it was not an inconvenience at all. And honestly, you’ve been the best housemate I’ve had to put up with, so far.”

“Have you had a lot?” A peculiar look flits across his face, too quick for me to read it.

“I mean, I’ve had, like, the usual amount? College roommates, then shared a house after that, then shared an apartment approximately the size of a matchbox for a couple years because I thought it would be great to live in San Francisco, but then I got sick of it in three months and came back here.”

He huffs a laugh. “Um. I didn’t know that.”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t usually get along well with roommates.”

“Ah. Should I be ecstatic to be an outlier?”

I stare at him and that little glimmer in his eyes that suggests if he weren’t so nervous all the time, he would’ve already murdered me with the amounts of sass he carries around. “Sure,” I say. “Put up a sign in your apartment.”

“I live in a house.”

“Oh, shit. New York still has real estate available?”

“It does when you work for the government.”

I snicker. “Way to take advantage.”

“Want to hear a secret?” he whispers, leaning in close—so close that it makes me think of other things that we’ve done over the past five days, and I want to turn my head just a little bit so I can press my lips to his. “You have to promise to keep it, though.”

“I’m _great_ at keeping secrets.”

I hear a little chuckle.

“ _Fuck_ the government,” he says.

I can’t help but to laugh and he draws back, inordinately pleased.

“Is that why you work for them?”

“Yeah. Gotta steal all their money, you know? Give it all to charity and Flint, Michigan.”

I grin at him. “Doing the lord’s work, I see,” I say, and he flushes brightly. Fidgets, then coughs, but he’s smiling.

“Don’t say _that,_ ” he protests.

“Sorry. I have a friend that makes too many Jesus jokes. It rubs off on you after a while.”

“No, I don’t—I don’t mind. Um, too much.”

"No, I'll stop. I probably shouldn't be making jokes about your god anyway."

He flushes, which is adorable. “No, I'm not—not _that_ religious. I mean, Dad… used to take me to church and stuff, but that was a long time ago. I don't even go anymore, and Mum only goes, um, sometimes." He clears his throat. "Which, obviously, is not an excuse for being homophobic. For which again I'm sorry."

"No worries." I’m over it. That had been eleven whole days ago. Mom will probably get bored of Brandi in the next week or so, and I won’t even feel bad about it. I’m only worried that she knows where my parents live and might show up out of the blue and be all creepy.

“Um. Still. Sorry if she’s… made it weird.”

“Don’t apologize for her, dude, that’s not your job.”

He clears his throat and glances away. “Yeah. Um. I don’t know. I’ll work on it. Sorry.”

I snort and yank him in for a hug, smacking him on the back ( _kiss him kiss him kiss him_ ) until he grunts and squeezes me so hard that I can’t breathe for a second.

Then he loosens himself and steps back.

“You gonna think about therapy? For me?” I wiggle my eyebrows enticingly.

He blushes. “Um. I…. Sure.”

“Fuck yeah, that’s what I love to hear.”

He ducks down, still pink. “Sorry about—yesterday. And all that crap.”

“Dude, no sweat. It happens sometimes. It’s perfectly fine; perfectly normal. I hope you’re not still beating yourself up over it.”

He fidgets a little and does a half-hearted, tiny shrug. “’S fine. I’m… working on it.”

“Okay,” I say. If I cling to his sleeve a little bit, I don’t think anyone notices. “I’m never going to judge you, though, you know that, right? And none of that’s your fault.”

He nods, though he’s not looking at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Cool.” I let go of him. “I’ll tell that to you as many times as you want to hear it. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says, though his voice wavers a little bit and he sounds unsure, and I still want to beat myself up over yesterday because obviously I’d gotten _way_ too out of control and had been a hazard to society and I’m not really sure if I should see my therapist about that or see several one-night stands about it. I want to punch Horny Me. Still. Even after hours of cuddling and him napping in my arms (I almost fucking _died_ , he was _too_ cute, what was he _doing_ with me, letting me… _do_ that kind of shit to him?) and making him a sinful amount of cookies (because cookies and milk always make things better) that the twins will probably yell at me over, later, because they don’t understand object permanence very well yet and don’t get that I can just make… more… cookie dough.

“Cool,” I say, a little desperately, wanting him to believe it but not quite sure how to pound it into his head, because it has been more than several years since I took a psychology class and I remember none of it, least of all how to make people stop hating themselves.

He offers me a tentative little smile. “It’s not your fault either, then.”

“Right,” I say, not quite believe that, either (I’m the one who _fucking_ suggested it, _fuck_ , why had I _suggested_ that?), but I figure I better damn say that because his happiness is my priority here.

“Yeah, we’re both lying, aren’t we?” he says, so blatant that I have to laugh.

“Nah, bro.”

“Shut up.” He grins, though, fingers finding the zipper of his coat again. He glances at customs, smile turning a little wistful. “I should—”

“Yeah,” I say. “Fuck, dude, you probably gotta go. Sorry for, uh, dragging this out.”

He looks at me. His eyes are like clear glass, or maybe a laser stabbing all the way through, like he can see every one of my secrets. “You didn’t. I really… I really liked spending time with you. So, um, thanks. For that.”

 _Stupid, soppy grin, get off my face!_ “Yeah. Of course. Any time you’re bored, hit me up. I’m wonderful at entertainment.”

He laughs, softly, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. “Well, um. Goodbye, then.”

“Bye.”

 _Don’t_ leave _!_

He blinks at me for a moment, still smiling, then reaches a hand out and tugs me in by the lapels of my coat, wrapping his arms around me once more.

“Thanks for everything,” he mumbles, his face in my neck. I think I feel the phantom brush of lips against my skin, igniting the hickeys I’m hiding under my high collar, but I may be imagining it. I don’t dare kiss him back, not in such a public space, when he’s… well, when he hasn’t quite figured himself out yet. Besides, we’d done tons of kissing this morning. Like, so much kissing. I don’t know how we managed to eat breakfast. I shouldn’t _want_ more, I’ve had so much already. Fuck, I’m so greedy.

I bury my nose in his coat; he’s only been in my house for a little more than a week, but he’s somehow managed to pick up my scent. “You’re welcome.”

I feel the warmth of his exhale—

And then he’s gone, out of my arms, several paces away. He looks like a smart businessman, somehow, even with the puffy orange coat (yes, questionable color, I’m aware, fine, so maybe I picked it out because I _hadn’t_ been entirely sure that he’d not turn out a douche, but I don’t regret it because it actually goes shockingly well with his complexion) over his formal clothes.

“Goodbye,” he says again.

“Bye.”

He walks backward a couple steps before he must get nervous that he’s going to crash into someone, because he turns around and makes his way to the line at customs, which is starting to grow longer as traffic increases. It feels odd to see him like this, like he’s just any other person: he’s not holding any carry-on, so he looks like he might’ve just walked in from the street to catch a plane, last-minute: like he decided the afternoon was a great time to take a trip to New York City.

I’ve never had a particular preference for airports—they were just a space for you to wait when you wanted to get from one place to another—but I think I can start to understand, being here, why some people don’t like them all that much: an airport’s where you lose people. They walk away from you and get lost amongst thousands of other heads when they leave, and you’re never sure if you’ll see them again. I lost Michael, a couple years back; I lost Queenie and Jason and Ella and Jackie; and now S.J.’s leaving, too.

It’s not like I’m going to start _bawling_ over it: there’s just an unfamiliar ache in my chest, watching another person leave to carry on with their life. Left behind, physically. Not mentally, of course. It takes me a moment to remind myself of the distinction so I don’t go tumbling back into depression. It helps to see S.J.’s cheery orange coat, standing out in the line; he occasionally twists around to look at me and grins, and I can’t help but to grin back. He’s not even halfway through the line, but I don’t mind sitting here and waiting. It’s practically tradition to wait to leave until the person I’m seeing off is no longer visible, though it’s terrifyingly final.

S.J. looks away from me, swiping his eyes across customs and the tired people checking passports. His head ducks down.

A moment later, my phone buzzes.

A notification from one S.J. Fernby.

S.J.: _Hey, you said you wanted me to text_

Then: _I have something to tell you_

_This line is moving so SLOW_

I look up, unable to help the foolish grin on my face.

From where he is in the line, he looks up and grins back, his phone still in his hands.

I text back: _Aww, poor baby_ , and he spams me with angry, red-faced emojis; I have to laugh.

Well: maybe him leaving isn’t so final, after all.


End file.
